Brenda K. Starr's "I Still Believe": The Final Aching, Dying Whisper Of '80s Pop

In his AllMusic biography for Rosie & the Originals, Richie Unterberger quotes another writer, Mark Sten, who provides the following description of the 1960 oldies radio staple "Angel Baby":

"... generating a robot mantra devoid of embellishment or variation, the perfect underpinning for Rosie's piercing, disembodied-siren vocal. With 'Angel Baby,' rock had regressed as far as it could, some nameless dread loosed within the collective Top 40 mind had run its course and spent itself in a lost mournful wail. 'Angel Baby' was the final moonlit flowering of rock's medieval phase, paean to a purity and innocence no longer possible in the real world."

"Rock's medieval phase"? So which phase are we in now? The Concentration Camp phase? I kid, I kid. But as "Angel Baby" served as the departing, plaintive, youthful sigh of its era, I believe there is a song from the Summer of '88 that embodies a similar spirit. In my humble opinion, there is a hit that captures that last flicker of '80s musical guilelessness, before the tide of '90s crassness would swiftly rush in and snuff out those faintly glowing embers once and for all. If there is a "final moonlit flowering" of '80s pop, a "paean to a purity and innocence" that would no longer be possible in the world of '90s Top 40 radio, it is Brenda K. Starr's "I Still Believe."

Allow me to explain, with a few handy links. In just a few short years after 1988, at least 75% of the R&B-flavored, drum machine-powered Top 40 ballads that, musically speaking, weren't terribly far removed from "I Still Believe," would feature lyrics such as these:

• "Let me lick you up and down, till you say stop/Let me play with your body baby, make you real hot/Let me do all the things you want me to do/'Cause tonight baby, I wanna get freaky with you"
• "Good lovin' body rockin' knockin' boots all night long/Makin' love until we tire to the break of dawn"
• "I can do it soft or I can do it hard/I can make you scream if you let down your guard my baby/If it ain't good enough baby, I'll work harder/I'll keep pumpin' every minute girl"
• "Do you mind if I stroke you up/Do you mind if I stroke you down/All through the night/Until your body's tired"

These lyrics were not controversial or unusual. These lyrics did not emanate from Prince and a couple of Prince's side projects. Oh no. This was the lingua franca of the day. If you weren't singing about fucking somebody for an impossibly lengthy duration, you didn't stand a chance. In just a few short years, the average listener of Top 40 music was basically going to need to put a condom over their radio in order to listen to it. Pop music went straight from the Disney Channel to Cinemax, and it went there fast. In summary, if Brenda K. Starr had come out with this song in 1993, she would have melted like the Wicked Witch.

Now, flash forward to the Spring of 1999. I am sitting in my freshman dorm room, which I share with my Vietnamese-American roommate (suffice to say, while we share a room, we do not share remotely the same taste in music). Suddenly he begins playing a new Mariah Carey song, and begins playing it more times than I deem necessary, but that's neither here nor there. I instantly recognize the track as a cover version of a song that had originally been an omnipresent hit in the Summer of '88. I recall, incorrectly, that the song had originally been performed by Debbie Gibson. All I can think is, "Why the fuck is Mariah Carey covering some old Debbie Gibson song?"

Was there a memo I missed where Debbie Gibson had suddenly become ironically hip and cool again? Ah, but my perennially flawless pop music memory had erred for once - although the error was quite understandable. You see, in my foggy recollection I conflated "I Still Believe" with "Foolish Beat." Both are melancholy break-up ballads that prominently feature the words "love again" in the chorus, both had been hits right around the same time (although "I Still Believe" only peaked at #13 as opposed to #1), and, according to Wikipedia, both songs merited inclusion in Rolling Stone's "50 Awesomely Bad Break-Up Songs." For several years I expressed confusion over Mariah Carey's covering of a dopey Debbie Gibson tearjerker, while somehow sensing that I was off the mark. Finally, in February 2011, I wrestled myself free from the shackles of Summer of '88 ignorance and learned the true identity of the original recording artist.

Here's the deal. Once upon a time, Brenda K. Starr (possibly a distant cousin to Ringo?) employed an unknown back-up singer named Mariah Carey. In fact, it was Brenda K. Starr who fatefully handed Mariah Carey's demo tape to Tommy Mottola. In other words, we owe Mariah Carey to Brenda K. Starr. Not really, but the point is, ten years later and sitting on top of the R&B diva Matterhorn, Mariah wanted to pay tribute to the singer who gave her that big break. From Wikipedia:

She explained that the song "reminds me of the fact that not long ago I was a teenage girl with nothing to my name but a demo tape, my voice, and my ability to write songs. Brenda K. Starr treated me like a 'star' and gave me a shot." ... "I'm really glad that I got a chance to remake the song 'I Still Believe,' because the album is called '#1's' and this is the first song that I sang as a professional singer. I would go on the road with Brenda. I was a little skinny kid with no money that she took under her wing and she was so nice to me. I auditioned to be her back-up singer and she hired me and she used to bring me clothes and food, and she really took care of me like a big sister. A lot of people wouldn't have done that. The main thing was that she believed in me and it's really hard to get people to listen to your tapes. [...] She was always real cool and helpful and supportive. I always loved this song. When I sing it now, it reminds me of those times."

Brings a tear to your eye, but personally, I feel like Mariah Carey's version of "I Still Believe," with its Brett Ratner-directed video (!), is a stellar example of how '90s pop lost so much of the directness of '80s pop in an effort to seem more "sophisticated." Mariah doesn't simply sing the song. She does all this "stuff." She slathers herself all over the intro, rather than simply letting it play as Brenda does. She constantly shifts from a creaky whisper to high-volume belting. I am not going out on a limb if I suggest that Mariah Carey is a more talented singer than Brenda K. Starr, but I hear so much calculation and decision-making in Mariah's vocal choices. Mariah sounds like she "really loves this song that helped her get her big break" and she wants you to know how much it means to her. Brenda K. Starr sounds like she just told the construction worker across the street who cat-called her to fuck off. There's nothing "off-the-cuff" about Mariah's version. It's too lush, too spotless, too professional to be the butt of blogger jokes. The Mariah Carey version knows that it's going to be "significant," that it's going to be "remembered" by her fans. No thank you. The Brenda K. Starr version, the one that was merely hoping to hang around on the airwaves for a couple of months before its three minutes and forty-five seconds of fame were up, is the one for me.

You see, Brenda K. Starr had one shot - one chance at pop music immortality - and she took it. This was her one spark of hope, and Brenda grasped it with both hands.

"I Still Believe" rises up from the bowels of the Hudson River on a sludgy wave of tinkling keyboard, synthesized bass, and ambient seagull sound effects. I feel like a '90s pop song would have gone to greater lengths to sound "state-of-the-art" and "high-tech," but "I Still Believe" makes zero attempt to mask its low-budget origins. It could have been recorded in some derelict office park in New Jersey by some guy whose day job was, I don't know, bouncer at a strip club (amusingly enough, it was produced by Eumir Deodato, the man responsible for every J.T. Taylor-era Kool & the Gang hit, which might explain the recycling of the seagull sound effect from "Cherish"). I'm sure there were exceptions, but why do I get the impression that Top 40 hits in the '90s couldn't simply show up off the street and walk right into the charts like this one did? To me, "I Still Believe" is the last of a dying breed, like an '80s pop hit sung by Marisa Tomei's character from My Cousin Vinny. (According to Wikipedia, Brenda is half-Jewish/half-Puerto Rican - she's like a walking borough.)

It's the little touches, the unintended moments, that elevate a track like this over more deliberately ambitious material:

• 1:02 - I hear just the faintest whisper of mic distortion on the word "again," as if Brenda is straining at the boundaries of the technology in order to ensure that her pain can be heard
• 1:55 - Were you afraid there might not be a sax? Of course there was going to be a sax. It announces its arrival with a stream of ascending notes in the middle of the second verse, just as Brenda lets loose with a rapid-fire series of "No-no-no-no-no"s
• 2:03 - She reaches down into the depths of her Tri-State agony as she growls "Rrrrr-ah-still-buh-leave-that-we-can-be-to-geh-thuhhhhhh! Huh-ohhh!," before some double-tracking kicks in on "If we believe that true love," suggesting a momentary burst of inner strength. You're going to get through this, Brenda, you really are.
• 2:28 - An army of overdubbed "back-up" Brendas enters and proceeds to sing the chorus, while the real, lead-singing Brenda waits until 2:31 to let loose with an intense "Yeah-eahhh"
• 2:42 - The fade-out is really where Brenda kicks it into gear. First she emits a soulful "Oh baby yeah!" before jumping an octave on "I had a dream." Then at 2:52 she sings ever-so-slightly behind the beat, letting out a rushed "will-find-ourselves." She's so ... sensual. However, nothing may top the supremely New Yawk delivery of "Ooh-ooh baby oy do-woo!" and "Just gimme one mo' troy" that follows. You couldn't contrive that kind of attitude.

Brenda not only brought it in the studio, she brought it in the video (as if you had any doubts). First of all, she's wearing exactly the kind of outfit you'd imagine she'd be wearing: a leather jacket over a cropped white short-sleeve sweater and leather skirt, with giant hoop earrings. My guess is that she didn't even dress up for the video; this was probably just what she happened to be wearing that day. The video alternates between shots of Brenda dancing in an abandoned brick warehouse with rays of white dust being illuminated by the light from the windows a la "One More Try" and shots of Brenda strolling dejectedly along what appears to be the Brooklyn shoreline as she passes an endless stream of happy couples holding hands in the park. Can't anyone see her torment?

"Something About You": Jazz-Funk Fusion That's Simply On Another, Ahem, Level

Countless '80s hits, from "Take My Breath Away" and "St. Elmo's Fire (Man In Motion)" to "Shattered Dreams" and "Hands To Heaven," could be credited to that legendary group known as "What's Their Name?" Quite a group they were, What's Their Name? - seemingly capable of churning out radio classic after radio classic. I don't know how they did it. Nevertheless, I am willing to go on record to state that "Something About You" might very well be What's Their Name's crowning achievement.

For years I heard a certain synth-pop nugget on the radio that featured the lyrics "You're only human after all," and assumed that it was the song "Human" by the Human League. Later I realized that "Human" is actually this song, and that the song I'd assumed was "Human" is actually called "Something About You," and was performed by a band called Level 42. Then, for a few years after that, I used to see the band names "Heaven 17" and "Haircut 100" in print and think, "Oh, those are the guys who did "Something About You"!

The point is: Level 42? Who the hell were Level 42?

Level 42 were the band that perfected the genre the '80s were hungry for, even if the '80s didn't know it yet: jazz-funk fusion.

Level 42 were like Chick Corea for soccer moms. Level 42 were like a Herbie Hancock burger with a helping of Tears for Fears sauce. While the rest of Britain's aspiring young musicians circa 1980 were gravitating toward the jagged, angular strains of new wave and post-punk, Mark King and Mike Lindup found their muse in ... instrumental jazz-funk fusion. But! The band soon discovered they possessed an extra asset that their other '80s jazz-funk fusion rivals lacked: vocal prowess. From Wikipedia:

Having considered recruiting a singer, the band eventually settled on giving King and Lindup the vocal role. The two men developed a complementary style, with Lindup's falsetto frequently used for harmonies and choruses while King's deep tenor led the verses (although Lindup would also sing entire songs on his own).

So the guy with the normal voice would do his thing, and then the guy with the funny high-pitched voice would come in and do his thing. This was Level 42's "shtick." This was their "gimmick." Hey, when it works, it works.

Honestly, I like Level 42 more than I like actual jazz fusion! I mean, Level 42 sang. They wrote lyrics. They composed pop songs. In the UK, they actually had hit singles, plural - twenty of them, in fact (but I'm not here to talk about those). In their home country, they were a jazz-funk fusion institution. In the US, they were the band who did that song that I thought was "Human" by the Human League.

The truth is, I'll bet even the Human League wished they'd been the band behind "Something About You," because, like "Don't You Want Me" before it, "Something About You" strikes me as one of those "perfect" British synth-pop singles. Nothing about "Something About You" would I alter in the slightest. It's got everything I need. Thumping dance beat. Continuous guitar riff on the right channel that sounds like a platypus wanking. Screeching guitar solo toward the fade-out. More hooks than a Peter Pan Broadway production's dressing room. Well, there's only one hook that really matters: it's the chord progression that kicks the song off and ultimately powers the chorus. Chord progressions like that are what the British synth-pop gods feast on, in vast mountain temples surrounded by bubbling cauldrons of virgins' blood. I'll take that chord progression any way they'll give it to me. I'll take it with a pile of descending "ooh"s. I'll take it with Mike Lindup swooping in like prime, pre-bedridden-in-a-bathrobe Brian Wilson as he belts out "Drawn into the stream of undefined illusion/Those diamond dreams, they can't disguise the truth." I'll take it with Mark King grunting his way through "Because there's something about you, baby, so right." I'll take it with a house. I'll take it with a mouse. The lyrics are, as far as I can tell, mainly romantic in nature, but with a vaguely philosophical and quasi-inspiring undertone? The verses are littered with unusual turns of phrase and bizarre imagery ("A love carved out of caring, fashioned by fate," "Fragile but free, we remain tender together," etc.), the line "We're only human after all" suggesting that the theme of the song is something along the lines of "Everybody plays the fool," but that doesn't quite jibe with the more nakedly positive statement that makes up the chorus and title. Who cares? Those hooks!

And yes, I know that "Something About You" charted in 1986, not 1988 (and was actually released in 1985), but for reasons unbeknownst to me, I feel like I didn't really hear the song on the radio until the Summer of '88. It seemed to linger in the air like exhaust from a red Corvette on a desert highway. I mean, you think I'd ever do a series called "Summer of '86"? What am I, crazy?

A long time back, the most popular YouTube result for "Something About You Video" used to be this clip from a French (?) television show, Super Platine, featuring the band performing in front of a black screen with a tacky white "tracer" effect hovering around their limber jazz-funk fusion frames. It was while watching this clip that I determined that Mike Lindup resembled Frankenstein's preppie Ivy League nephew. Nevertheless, my hunch that this was not the "proper" video proved to be correct.



Because the proper video is one of those genuine mid-'80s "mindfuck" videos that bears no relation to the song it's allegedly depicting and where the band must have stumbled into a meeting half-soused and told the director, "Look, here's the budget, just make it weird and incomprehensible and basically do whatever you want." Here, as far as I can gather, is the "plot": Mark King sits in a train compartment with his band mates, the video almost implying that they are strangers to him, and he begins to hallucinate that he is an evil vaudevillian clown-demon who is systematically destroying his other band mates' romantic relationships, which all happen to be with the same actress, and at the very end that same actress turns out to simply be some random stranger in the train station. I see.



Here is a noble attempt by one bold YouTube commentator to explain the various layers of meaning:

It's interesting that they would wrap this song with a video that deals with madness. The imagery and subtle body language of the characters tells the story of a young man on a train who is growing more agitated as the journey continues. The first thing we are shown is the "insanity" itself in the form of the very animated Clown figure who lives in a long hallway. When this figure appears, it serves as the surrogate to the young man as his visions of skewed relationships take shape. He periodically blurts out nonsensical words while sitting in the passenger car, much to the surprise and annoyance of the other passengers, eventually even needing to be restrained until he relaxes. As the journey progresses, he looks at the three young men sitting across from him (who are, in real life, the other members of Level 42) and, one at a time, imagines them in a relationship with a "dream" girl. You can see the young man furtively glance at the first one and then immediately start a dream sequence in which the Clown observes and reacts to a skewed moment of a relationship. The dreams are in color while reality is shown in black & white. This pattern continues with the other two passengers, each finding themselves uncomfortably the object of attention of the crazy young man sitting with them on the train while he imagines them with the Dream Girl. The Clown eventually gains full control in the young man's imagination, gleefully dancing until the madness swings to the other side of the spectrum and angrily lashes out at the dream girl. Fortunately for the other passengers, the train stops and the young man gets off, taking The Clown with him. But we also see the Dream Girl (still in color, and invisible to anyone else) ever-present in the young man's madness. Again, why they put this imagery with Something About You, I have no idea.

Make that two of us! I guess this video must exist on Level 42, and the rest of us are merely stuck on Level 41.

Can't Stay Away From "Can't Stay Away From You"

Back when a cassette copy of Let It Loose found itself permanently lodged in my family's car stereo, I thought it was da bomb. I was also eight years old, and my school lunches consisted of a packet of fruit snacks, a slice of bologna, and a Capri-Sun - none of which I am convinced contained anything resembling actual food. They say a growing boy should eat a nutritious diet. Whoops! I have to wonder: if I had actually bothered to consume real food during my youth, just how much healthier would I be now?

The point is, at the time, I was a fervent admirer of hits like "1-2-3" and "Anything For You," but now I'd probably rather listen to "anything" other than those two songs faster than you can say "1-2-3." However. There is one sleazy, heavily dated Let It Loose ballad that still gets me where it hurts. I know it's just no use, 'cause I can't stay away from "Can't Stay Away From You."

I'm pretty sure the opening percussive "domp, domp" sound was generated by Gloria and/or the other members of the Sound Machine finding an extremely obese man on the streets of Miami, luring him into the studio, shoving a microphone into his pliable belly, and gently tapping his gelatinous flab from side to side. Give that man a recording contract! Or maybe it was ... a giant vat of water? Let's face it, that "domp, domp" noise is what makes this baby churn. Without it we'd just have a languid stew of treated guitar, gloopy synths, and imitation snare blasts during the chorus that, for me at least, conjure up the image of a truck hitting one of those protective freeway drums filled with sand - it's like you can hear the little bits of bad '80s sound flying through the air with each pound.

Yes, like a grade school lunch, there's hardly any element in the sonic tableau of "Can't Stay Away From You" that stems from actual organic human creation. But there is one, and it's the only one that matters. What violent inner psychological turmoil was Gloria Estefan hiding beneath that placid, Cuban-American surface? Because on this song, the Notorious G.E. lays it all out on the line. You thought "Words Get In the Way" was a downer? Try "Can't Stay Away From You" on for size.

A quick glance at the first few lines of the lyric sheet would suggest a "Conga"-style fiesta: "Time flies/When you're having fun/I heard somebody say." Break out the Cuervo! But this time, master of misdirection that she is, Gloria has a less giddy scenario in mind:

But if all I've been is fun
Then baby let me go
Don't wanna be in your way

And I don't wanna be your second choice
Don't wanna be just your friend
You keep telling me that you're not in love
You wanna throw it all away

Well, hey, not everyone's looking for the same thing in a relationship. Some people want to have a good time, others want the wedding ring and the house with the picket fence and the 2.3 kids. So what's the big deal?

But I can't stay away from you
I don't wanna let you go
And though it's killing me, that's true
There's just some things I can't control

Your love is slipping through my hands
And though I've heard it all before
I know you're telling me the truth
I know it's just no use
But I can't stay away from you

Ohhhh. That's her problem right there. I mean, she should probably just stay away from him. For years I heard the lyrics "Look over your shoulder, I'll be there/You can count on me to stay," and assumed, marginally paying attention to the rest of the content, that Gloria was saying something along the lines of "You can depend on me, baby." Words of reassurance. But no, what she's saying is "You really shouldn't count on me to stay." She should just snap out of it, but she can't, because she feeds off the pain.

I should mention one stellar instrumental touch aside from the obese man's tummy. At the very end of the song, as Gloria repeats the last three lines of the chorus, the forcefully plucked notes from the synthesized zither (?) slow to an agonizing crawl, dragging out the drama until every last drop of Yuppie tears has been squeezed dry. Note on the video: perhaps it should have been titled: "Can't Stay Away From You ... But I Can Afford This Luxury Apartment Chock Full Of Priceless Statues That's Bathed In Overpowering Hues Of Blue."

Frankly, "Can't Stay Away From You" had never been a particular favorite of mine (I was more of a "Rhythm Is Gonna Getcha" kid myself) - until one chance listen on a deserted roadway in the summer of 1996. During that particular summer I found myself dealing with, for the first time, feelings related to, shall we say, girls - and not necessarily the pleasant, comforting kind of feelings. More like the "I don't think these girls feel remotely the same way about me as I do about them, but I can't seem to move on" type of feelings. I suddenly found myself in Lassen National Park, preparing to embark on a nine-day backpacking trip with my scout troop. We were car camping on the very first night, and for some reason there was time to kill and an item or two that someone needed to go pick up from a store - the nearest store being, naturally, 45 minutes away. That is how I found myself riding on a virtually empty stretch of highway, in the vehicle of somebody's dad - a dad I didn't actually know that well - along with another kid in the car (who I didn't know that well either). The dad had the radio on. We were all tired, not talking to each other, merely listening to the music. Now, I don't know what station this was, but it wasn't your typical Bay Area radio station; it was like your kooky Northern Northern California radio station that played Classic Rock and oldies and traditional vocal pop and God knows what else. For instance, on that very same car ride, I ended up receiving my first exposure to Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died." At any rate. Suddenly the station played Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine's "Can't Stay Away From You." I instantly had one of those "I haven't heard this song in years" moments.

You've got to understand. Yes, the difference between 2019 and 1996 is 23 years, and the difference between 1996 and 1988 is only eight years. But. In pop music time, that eight years might as well have been eighty years. Pop music in 1996 had long ceased to sound anything like pop music from 1988. It's funny, but sitting there in that car, hearing this song, I mean ... 1988 seemed like it had been a long time ago. And personally, we're talking the difference between being eight years old and being sixteen years old.

So I'm sitting there listening to this Gloria Estefan song I hadn't heard in eight years, soaking in the desolate, rugged Lassen landscape, with girls on my mind even though I didn't want girls on my mind, wondering how the hell I was going to enjoy myself on this backpacking trip when I used to be able to go on backpacking trips without having girls on my mind, and suddenly I started to hear new wrinkles in the tacky late '80s wallpaper. The emotion in Gloria's vocal that didn't quite register in my younger days now seemed to take on a creepier, harsher resonance. Honestly, I think it was reassuring to recognize that, even back in 1988, relationships could be messy and depressing. There was something about the unexpected entanglement of dated synth, bitter sentiment, recollection of the time when the song was a hit, the exhaustion and heat of that particular afternoon, the dry, barren beauty of the region, and my present-day uncertainty and fear that all somehow meshed together to really hit the spot.

So yeah. I've got to give her this one.

"I Feel Free" To Affectionately Mock Belinda's Random Cream Cover

December 1966. A hot new act has just taken the London psychedelic scene by storm. The group showcases a thundering drummer, versatile bassist/singer, and the most heavily-hyped guitar sensation the British public has ever known. Together they are inventing the concept known as the "power trio." Their second single is an arresting creation overflowing with seemingly disparate elements: overlapping vocal parts, giddy handclaps, tinny piano, fuzz-drenched electric guitar, surreal lyrics, jarring stop-start dynamics. The song, "I Feel Free,' peaks at #11 in the UK and serves as the dynamic lead-off track to the band's US debut album.



Fast-forward to late 1987. Freshly-perfumed Belinda Carlisle is recording her second solo album in a state-of-the-art Los Angeles studio, with Rick Nowels in the producer's chair. She needs material. Somebody says, possibly in jest, possibly after having ingested an ill-advised amount of the magic dust, "Guys, guys, I've got it! She can do a cover of ... Cream's 'I Feel Free'! But we'll make it sound, like, all '80s and stuff!" A chorus of eager assent erupts throughout the studio. This suggestion is immediately put into action.



All right. I want a straight answer. No deflections of blame, no convenient claims of ignorance. Whose idea was it to have Belinda record a cover of Cream's "I Feel Free"? Oh I feel free all right - free to ask "What the fuhhhhh?" I mean what was the thought process here? I'm not particularly angry. I'm not particularly bothered. I just want to know. Not only that, but whose idea was it to release it as a single? Heaven On Earth had already managed to produce an impressive string of three top ten hits, but you know what, MCA? That just wasn't enough for you. Oh no. You got greedy. You had visions of True Blue and Whitney dancing around in your heads and you just couldn't leave well enough alone. Well guess how high Belinda's impressively sanitized cover of this psychedelic nugget performed on the charts? Her version of "I Feel Free" peaked at a whopping ... wait for it ... #88.

Whereas Cream's version gallops along like a ... like a brand new Jaguar, Belinda's version seems to lurch forward in fits and starts like, let's say, a broken down VW van. Whereas the original is powered along by the beastly rumble of Ginger Baker in his prime, the re-make is powered along by, I assume, a beat that is less than human. Whereas Clapton's solo sounds like a laser beam tripping on shrooms, the solo in Belinda's version sounds like a ... hive of disgruntled hornets? In short, I want to say that Belinda's cover of "I Feel Free" is kind of ... what's the word? Lacking? But ... oh, come on, who am I kidding? No one else. No one else could have done this - would have done this. This is another Belinda head-scratcher moment for the ages. Listen to how hard she brings it on the second bridge. "You think my Cream cover is a joke? I'll tell you who's the joke, bitch." She even tops it all off with the most unintentionally hilarious 1988 outro-whispering this side of "Man in the Mirror." I'm looking around for even the slightest sign of irony, but nope, there's not a spec on the horizon. I'm fairly certain that when Belinda, Rick, and crew sat around and listened to the playback, they all thought to themselves, "That was awesome!"

I mean, the Go-Go's circa 1981 could have really laid into this with aplomb (arguably it would have been more up the Bangles' alley), but ... Belinda circa 1988? Why not have her do "Purple Haze," or "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" while we're at it? Where's Belinda's trippy rendition of the Yardbirds' "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago," eh? Hey, I've got an idea: how about Belinda doing a cover of "My Generation," but instead of having her smash her instruments to pieces at the end, we'll just have her get a manicure? God knows what Clapton thought of Belinda's interpretation of his former group's work, but I may not be going out on a limb here if I surmise that his sitar-playing buddy came across it and secretly made a note to himself: "You know ... I think that's girl's got something."

[A quick word on the Heaven on Earth album as a whole. Despite the fact that it is her best-selling and most widely-known solo long-player, and that it contains, I think it's fair to say, three of her absolute best singles (not to mention the world's most unexpected Cream cover), when I compare it to her solo debut, I find the album as a whole to be kind of ... boring? Bland? Can you believe I'm saying this? Heaven on Earth was a major global success, peaking at #4 in the UK and in the top ten all over Europe (oddly, just like Belinda, it peaked at #13 in the U.S., but eventually went platinum as opposed to Belinda's mere gold), and I have even seen a few Europeans talk about it online as if it were a "classic" '80s album that belongs on "Greatest '80s Albums" lists and such. Hey listen. I am as big a Carlisle-ophile as they come, but ... I don't know about that. The singles aside, I find it a rather ... disheartening affair. Belinda at least had the shock of the new. It was a career reinvention, which suggested that each of her subsequent albums might also be career reinventions. Psych! It turns out that, actually, this was just what her whole solo career was going to sound like. Singles aside, Heaven On Earth is like a Celine Dion album without the balls. Just listen to these song titles: "World Without You." "Fool For Love." "Love Never Dies." Oh love can die all right - die from boredom. I mean, Belinda always brings the vocal fire, but there's only so much one can do with boilerplate adult contemporary craft. I wouldn't even call the album tracks on Heaven on Earth "failed experiments" or "awkward ideas gone awry." They're just achingly, screamingly ... competent. It's Rick Nowels living out his ultimate Robert John "Mutt" Lange fantasy. At least "Nobody Owns Me" (recalling Lesley Gore's "You Don't Own Me"?) has some roaring, vaguely rebellious verve, and a bratty "no-no-no" refrain lifted from Dylan's "It Ain't Me Babe" (!); perhaps it could have been a Go-Go's track in another life? Anyway. That's all I have to say about that.]

Here's how half-assed the record label's push for "I Feel Free" was: instead of bothering to film a proper video for the single, they simply slapped together some live footage from the Good Heavens! '88 concert video, complete with grainy, gimmicky post-production effects, and put that out instead.



Wait, you mean I haven't told you about the Good Heavens! '88 concert video? It's her best straight-to-video concert movie since Live at the Roxy '86 - hands down. Here we find Belinda in her Jessica Rabbit phase, holding the audience at Philadelphia's Tower Theater in complete and utter rapture. Her high socks emit that "sexy Thanksgiving pilgrim" vibe, and her hands appear to be covered with ... striped socks? Let's call this her "Dr. Seuss" look. Horton Hears a Hottie. The set list contains every track from Heaven on Earth minus three, plus "Mad About You," and five majestically tame versions of Go-Go's chestnuts. She apparently managed to hire Bono as her lead guitarist for the tour, complete with leather vest and ponytail (he somehow grew a few inches as well), and ... wait a second ... is that the same keyboard player from Billy Idol's "Mony Mony" video? Guess Billy groped her one time too many and she finally switched teams. Also, if you're not paying enough attention, you might see the brunette and blonde back-up singers and think you're watching Jane and Charlotte rather than Donna DeLory and Bekka Bramlett. Coincidence? I think not. And whose idea was the Spinal Tap reference? (Odds that Belinda was in on this joke: 6.8/10.) YouTube comment highlights:

love the hair-tossing B...

I was always disappointed that I could never do enough coke for Belinda to be interested in me.

Santa. I've been a good boy. Please send me a collection of Belinda Carlisle's greatest hits on CD and Blue Ray videos of her concerts.

GREAT singing. RIP to the zebra that was killed just so she could wear those gloves and blouse, though...

A shame the Hamburglar had to die for her outfit, but well worth it. ;)

sweet cream in an ice cream sandwich! she was smoking hot!

The California Girl if there ever was one. Her Ann Margaret phase. She pulled it off and then some. Just a beautiful lady and man, did she dress modestly. When you have true talent and natural beauty, you don't have to let it all hang out.

And there are Madonna fans who claim Belinda is as worst a live singer as Madonna is. LOL, as if Madonna could pull this off. And I'm a fan of both!!

When I die.I want to come back as her gynecologist.

are people really makin fun of fuckin belinda carlisle. Really??????? wow! One of the greatest!

Years ago I noticed one particular comment beneath the "I Feel Free" video: "Thumbs up if you're here because you read American Psycho." Notably, the comment garnered no thumbs up, but it certainly piqued my curiosity. Belinda's Yuppie-tastic version of "I Feel Free" is exactly the kind of spotless late '80s multimedia conglomerate product that Patrick Bateman would have smeared all over his deceivingly handsome face. Sure enough, when Bateman enters an empty club on Page 79, he provides the following description:

"New Sensation" becomes "The Devil Inside" and the music is full blast but it feels less loud because there isn't a crowd reacting to it, and the dance floor looks vast when empty. I move away from the bar and decide to check out the club's other areas, expecting Patricia to follow but she doesn't. No one guards the stairs that lead to the basement and as I step down them the music from upstairs changes, melds itself into Belinda Carlisle singing "I Feel Free." The basement has one couple in it who look like Sam and Ilene Sanford but it's darker down here, warmer, and I could be wrong. I move past them as they stand by the bar drinking champagne and head over toward this extremely well-dressed Mexican-looking guy sitting on a couch. He's wearing a double-breasted wool jacket and matching trousers by Mario Valentino, a cotton T-shirt by Agnes B. and leather slip-ons (no socks) by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards, and he's with a good-looking muscular Eurotrash chick - dirty blonde, big tits, tan, no makeup, smoking Merit Ultra Lights - who has on a cotton gown with a zebra print by Patrick Kelly and silk and rhinestone high-heeled pumps.

Yesssss. Bret, Bret, oh Bret. Be still my '80s blogger heart. Belinda's version of "I Feel Free" might have flopped everywhere else, but in Patrick Bateman's world, at least, it was a unequivocal smash.

What Were We Really Going To Do Instead, Roll Against It?

Personally, I would prefer to roll in perpendicular relation to it, but if I ultimately must roll "with" it, I suppose I will.

The Ray Charles of Yuppie Rock scored some mighty ubiquitous hits in his day, but he never quite rocked the Montgomery Ward parking lot like he did during that magical Summer of '88. At the time it seemed like "Roll With It" would come on the radio first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and every hour in between; whether one enjoyed or loathed the single, one simply just had to ... roll with it. The rest of the accompanying album, which I figured I might as well listen to in preparation for this blog post, doesn't quite hit me the way the title track hits me. "Don't You Know What the Night Can Do?" No, Steve, I don't know what the night can do. I hope it can do more for me than the tracks on Roll With It that aren't "Roll With It" can do.

Back in 1988, I had no idea what Motown was, so I had no idea that this was a Motown "homage," and I certainly had no idea who Junior Walker and the All-Stars were, but apparently, per Wikipedia, someone else did: "Publishing rights organization BMI later had Motown songwriters Holland-Dozier-Holland credited with co-writing the song due to its resemblance to the Junior Walker hit '(I'm a) Roadrunner.'." (Spoiler alert: this same Dozier might soon be making an unexpected guest appearance in a Phil Collins post near you.) The sax break with the key change also calls to mind the solo from Aretha Franklin's "Respect." My cherished illusion of '80s Steve Winwood as an artist of unimpeachable integrity and originality has just been shattered, I tell you, shattered!

Meanwhile, he's mangling his lyrics worse than peak John Fogerty. I decided to play a little game here. I attempted to guess what the lyrics were, and then I went and looked them up to see how well I did. The results:

Guess: I'm done knocking on your door/I'm tellin' you, oh nevermore
Actual: Hard times knocking on your door/I'll tell them you ain't there no more

Mine almost has more of an Edgar Allen Poe flavor to it.

Guess: People there gettin' down and out/You shouldn't work, it's all about
Actual: People think you're down and out/You show them what it's all about

In my version, it's a bitter commentary on Thatcher-era unemployment.

Guess: Nairobi Monday/You'll get there baby
Actual: Now there'll be a day/You'll get there baby

Hey, maybe "Nairobi Monday" was slang for really sweltering heat or something.

Guess: You'll lift bad times, we get high/There'll be no good times on your mind
Actual: You'll leave bad times way behind/Nothing but good times on you mind

A dark warning about the perils of substance abuse?

Frankly, I think I prefer my lyrics to the real ones.



Winwood used the video, filmed in tasteful black and white by a pre-Paula Abdul/Madonna/George Michael, etc. David Fincher, to finally live out his chitlin' circuit fantasies. It's a smokin' hot day in this Southern roadside bar, but Steve is getting down with the local blues pickers and sharecroppers' daughters like he was raised with them from birth. Fincher tries admirably to sexy up a Steve Winwood video, inserting shots of: a woman wiping her sweaty Southern bosom with a rag (0:30), a couple making out in a doorway behind an exhausted-looking black girl in a 'do rag (1:21), a vaguely Latin-looking couple attempting to do the Lambada right in the middle of the dance floor (1:28), a bookish fellow in glasses and tie (possibly anticipating Fincher's later video for "Rock the Cradle"?) being thrown to the floor by what appears to be a younger, wilder, less inhibited Miss Daisy (2:10), a woman trying to audition for one of the Fly Girls on In Living Colour but clearly having found her way to the wrong set (3:00), a lady sensually pressing her lipstick against a napkin (3:12), and finally, an old, wrinkled gentleman popping the top button off his shirt (3:45). I feel like erotic slow-motion shots of this sort are ultimately more effective when the individual on camera is Madonna instead of, say, Grampa Joad, buy hey, everybody's got to start somewhere. I mean, if Madonna's agent isn't calling yet, you better take that Steve Winwood offer, and you better like it. I've never heard Fincher's thoughts on this clip. Perhaps the first rule of the "Roll With It" video is not to talk about the "Roll With It" video.

Another #1 Hit From Faith? Don't Make A "Monkey" Out Of Me

So the "monkey" he's talking about in "Monkey" is the other guy's penis, right?

Bueller? Bueller? Anybody? I can't be the only one who thinks this. It is entirely possible, of course, that, in all matters George Michael, I simply assume the most plausible interpretation is the gayest interpretation.

You mean to tell me that the "monkey" in question is simply the clingy love interest of George's object of affection? "Why can't you set your monkey free?" Wink wink. "Always giving in to it"? Notice he doesn't say "Always giving in to him," he says "Always giving in to it" - it being, quite obviously, the guy's penis. He's always pleasuring himself instead of pleasuring George. Clear as a bell.

Maybe referring to a lover as a "monkey" is a British thing? I've heard the term "gorilla" be used to refer to a person, even "chimp," but "monkey"? Is that like a girlfriend who can't figure out how to pull an orange out of a jar or something? The only romantic/sexual term I know involving "monkey" would be "spanking the monkey." One racially provocative theory on YouTube is that the song is about a black guy who's trying to steal George's girlfriend/boyfriend. A better theory on YouTube is that the song is actually about being with a partner who's wrestling with drug addiction. This might explain George's frustration at having to "share my baby with a monkey" and other lyrics such as "Don't look now, there's a monkey on your back."

Whatever. I'm sticking with the penis theory.

I recall most of the hits from Faith being about as inescapable as breakfast cereal commercials (side question: what exactly does a toucan have to do with loops flavored like fruit?), but ... I have absolutely zero recollection of hearing "Monkey" in 1988. I first heard it when I borrowed a copy of Faith from my local library in the summer of 1999. I had read that the song ended up becoming the fourth US #1 hit from the album. A #1 hit that I had never actually heard? Curious. Maybe it had charted on pure commercial momentum, and then sank from the airwaves, a la "Batdance" or "Who's That Girl"? Maybe it ... stank? I mean, if it was any good, I surely would have heard it at some point on the radio, right? You couldn't go to the mall for five seconds without hearing "Father Figure" or "One More Try" blast through the JC Penney doors (not even in 1999!).

Well, when I finally got around to "Monkey" on the ol' CD from the library ... hot damn. Talk about a slammin', jammin', first-rate slice of Georgios funk.



"Monkey" is like the best Rick James/Debbie Gibson collaboration that never was. It's simultaneously bubblegum and tough as nails. Check out George's version of what I can only term vocal "scratching" at 0:34 ("like you did just then-then, th-th-then, then-just-then, just-just-just do it again"). What is this, Grandmaster George and the Furious Stubble? And get a load of that bridge! Rick Nowels probably shook his head with shame the minute he heard it, knowing he would never be able to approach its slinky, momentum-generating perfection. And to think I assumed this had just been a "tag-along" #1, eh? Au contrere, mon frere. As #1 hits from Faith go, "Monkey" might have been even more deserving of that appellation than "Faith" itself.

However. There's a catch.

The album version of "Monkey" that I came to know and love wasn't, as far as I can tell, the version that was actually a hit. That version was a Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis remix, which is the version featured in the music video. Listen. My admiration for Jam & Lewis's work with Janet Jackson knows no bounds, but ... I find this remix inferior to the album mix. They took out all the bass! And they added a bunch of extra organ chords to the chorus. You know what they did? They monkeyed around with "Monkey."



Which is fine, of course, for a club release, or a B-side. But if this had been August 1988, and I had heard the album version of "Monkey" on the radio, and then went out and bought the single version, I can tell you one thing: I would have been pissed. (The remix is even the version that appears on Ladies & Gentlemen: the Best of George Michael - it's like the "Everything She Wants" nonsense all over again.) Or is the Jam & Lewis mix the mix that was actually played on the radio? In that case, maybe "Monkey" didn't deserve to go to #1 after all. Professor Higglediggle adds:

Through employment of an unusual simian metaphor, Michael's "Monkey" dissects the post-colonial tension between British subjugation and African resistance, the singer's admission "I hate your friends/But I don't know how and I don't know when/To open your eyes" illustrating Frantz Fanon's concept of the divided self-perception of the Black Subject as discussed in Black Skin, White Masks, although potentially Michael acknowledges white European culpability with the statement "If I keep on askin' baby/Maybe I'll get what I'm askin' for." Jam & Lewis's single mix can be read as an attempt to re-appropriate Michael's cultural appropriation of black R&B, marking the track, in both versions, as a twin access of racial expression, although one that does not entirely avoid the trap of Levi-Strauss's conception of animal myth.

"Fast Car"; Slow Build AKA Bummer Of The Summer (Of '88)

It's kind of a bland song until the chorus. "You've got a fast car," yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah, the same circular acoustic guitar riff over and over, some maracas, some woman who sounds like Odetta, singing about how dreary her life is, whatever. Hell, she sings four verses before she gets to the chorus (clearly ignoring Roxette's motto, "Don't bore us, get to the chorus"). I suppose this is what dramatists call "tension" - tension so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw (surely Tracy Chapman knew her way around power tools?). Suddenly, more than two minutes into the song, she pulls out this glistening diamond:

'Cause I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm's real nice wrapped 'round my shoulder and
I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

Well dip me and fry me. Coupled with the shock of the shifting melody, the chorus feels like a tantalizing taste of a world that the singer can only experience in fleeting, isolated moments. Her voice fills with passion and energy, the drums finally snap out of their slumber - you can keep your ZZ Top, 'cause this is what it really feels like to cruise down a deserted highway at top speed. But alas, the moment passes, the sense of elation dissipates, the reality of her drab and monotonous existence sneaks back in. For one shining second, the narrator almost felt like she could be someone, and then she remembered, " Oh wait, that's right, I'm no one. Oh yeahhhh. Whoops! My bad."

Props to Chapman for leaving the scenario tantalizingly unresolved. She doesn't even bother to suggest that her characters' lives might ultimately improve. They might forever be stuck driving a car with a maximum speed limit of - gasp! - 58 mph. But you know what? Life doesn't resolve.



Appropriately enough, "Fast Car" hit the airwaves toward the tail end of the Summer of '88 - a sign, perhaps, that the harsh winds of autumn were just around the corner. As the single wafted from the radio of my family's not particularly quick motor vehicle, even eight-year-old me noticed that it, as they say, stood out a bit. Did I, sensitive and thoughtful young man that I was, take this opportunity to champion the single's unconventional flavor? On the contrary. I made merciless sport of it. Honestly, all I heard was "You got a fast car." I didn't even pay attention to the rest of the lyrics. Why would she be so worked up about a fast car? The song had such an air of "intensity" and "importance" to it, and yet the whole thing simply revolved around the velocity of her freakin' automobile? Gimme a break! I remember In Living Color did a parody sketch of "Fast Car" called "I Write a Fast Song." At the time, I thought this skit was the most hilarious work of modern comedy I had ever seen. It cut to the essence of what I found so "Mad Lib" about Chapman's folkie verite style. Hey, I was young.

Black-on-black domestic violence: still funny! The thing is, even though I made fun of the song, I also ... liked it. Sort of like how a boy in elementary school might express his attraction to a girl by picking on her.

When I heard "Fast Car" again in the mid-'90s, I realized that it is actually Depressing with a capital D. "We'll move out of the shelter"? Wait, they live in a shelter? Not even the loners and drifters in Bruce Springsteen songs live in shelters. "My old man's got a problem/Yeah, with the bottle, that's the way it is"? But ... but ... according to hair metal songs, I thought there wasn't any problem in the world that a couple of shots of whiskey couldn't fix. "See more of your friends than you do of your kids"? Wait, since when did protagonists in pop songs have kids? You mean sex actually produces kids? George Michael didn't tell me about this.

In a way, "Fast Car" didn't fit in with the Summer of '88 at all; it was more like an early glimpse of the '90s. Somewhere in a dingy coffee shop on the outskirts of town, Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls took notice. I don't know how, but "Fast Car" peaked at #6, and Chapman's accompanying debut album peaked at #1. Yes, an album that featured an opening track called "Talkin' Bout a Revolution" and a third track that featured the following chorus: "Across the lines/Who would dare to go/Under the bridge, over the tracks/That separate whites from blacks?" Millions of PC college kids and lapsed hippie housewives rose up in unison and said, "I will buy this Tracy Chapman album!" And to think, Natalie Merchant thought she had her finger on the middle class liberal zeitgeist.

Seriously though. How great was it that, for a few weeks there, "Fast Car" was jostling around on the radio dial alongside material like "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and "Hold On to the Nights"? Hey, had enough of Tiffany and Debbie Gibson while you're sitting there stuck in traffic on the 405? How about a radical leftist black lesbian to serenade you during your morning commute?

Go ahead, other decades: just try to out-weird the '80s.

"Circle In The Sand," Round And Round, Never-Ending Belinda Love Is What I've Found

I guess "Trapezoid in the Sand" wouldn't have had the same ring to it. "Rhombus in the Sand"? "Dodecahedron in the Sand"?

If there is one single that epitomizes the "Summer of '88" in my misguidedly nostalgic mind, "Circle in the Sand" might very well be it. Hearing it is like flying through an instantaneous wormhole and finding myself in the passenger seat of my family's Chevy Chevette, twiddling with the radio dial in the Safeway parking lot, waiting to get home so that I could binge-watch DuckTales.

In fact, the very first time I remember ever hearing the name "Belinda Carlisle" was not in association with the Go-Go's, or even in association with "Heaven is a Place on Earth," but as the name the DJ gave as he credited the singer behind this beguiling ballad. As far as I knew, "Circle in the Sand" was the first and only hit Belinda Carlisle had ever had. "Just who was this 'Belinda Carlisle'?," my eight-year-old brain pondered. I imagined a woman who was at least in her thirties, or possibly even her forties. She wasn't ugly, necessarily, but the picture of this "Belinda Carlisle" I created out of the ether did not look nearly as youthful and attractive as the actual Belinda of 1988 looked. Her voice had a bit of "age" in it. The weathered quiver fooled me - fooled me real good.

I swear that, for a couple of weeks there, I heard "Circle in the Sand" every hour on the hour. I didn't even need to look at my watch to know what time it was; I knew an hour had passed when the radio played "Circle in the Sand." It drew a circle in my heart that summer, ranking up there in my affections with "Make Me Lose Control," "Roll With It," and most of the other tunes I've spotlighted in this series. It was a cornerstone of the Summer of '88 (peaking at #7 in the US, #4 in the UK). And then once the summer ended ... I never heard the song on the radio again. Basically ever. I couldn't tell you where it went. The tide must have washed it away. Life moseyed along. Fall turned to Winter, Winter to Spring, I left my childish dreams behind, and one day, became a man.

Later, I heard the name "Belinda Carlisle," possibly in relation to another one of her solo hits, possibly in relation to the Go-Go's, and my immediate thought was, "Oh, hey, that's the singer who did 'Circle in the Sand'! So she did other stuff? Cool." Over time I realized that "Circle in the Sand" was not the song most people immediately associated with this singer. At times I even wondered if I'd dreamed its very existence. But no - "Circle in the Sand" was real.

Fast forward to December 2010. I have just absorbed Return to the Valley of the Go-Go's, have just learned that Belinda Carlisle had once been in the Germs, have just downloaded Her Greatest Hits to get my quick fix of solo Belinda goodness, and am now listening to "Circle in the Sand" for literally the first time in 22 years. I am wondering if it will be nearly as good as my eight-year-old self remembered it being (having recently been unimpressed by revisiting Huey Lewis's "Perfect World" after not having heard that song since 1988).

The first thing that strikes me ... is the speed. I'd remembered the song as having been slower, for some reason. I also didn't remember the rhythm track sounding quite so ... canned. As someone in a YouTube comment once described it, "Cue the 'bossa nova' button on the Casio keyboard." Funny how an instrumental choice that didn't stand out whatsoever in 1988 stood out like a sore thumb in 2010. But then, that oh-so distinctive voice entered the picture: "Sundown, all around/Walking through the summer's end/ Waves crash, baby don't look back/I would walk away again." Yeahhhh. Then Belinda pulled out that "Whoa-oh-oh" bit and I knew: my eight-year-old self had picked a winner all right.

Maybe it was merely the reference to sand, but during that Summer of '88, I lumped this one right into that little cluster (along with "Father Figure," "Sign Your Name," and "Nite and Day") as part of a Top 40 trend that I and only I seemed to have noticed: the "Egyptian Thing." Yes, even Belinda got in on the hieroglyphic action. "Circle in the Sand," in the opinion of my younger self, was Nowel's and Shipley's great contribution to this unofficial mini-genre. Whenever I heard it, I imagined this mystery Queen of the Nile parading around the pyramids in a gold-plated headdress, serenading her Pharaoh sweetheart, who was stranded miles away across Sinai, or something poignant and exotic to that effect. The bridge melody, in particular, coated with Belinda's "Whoa-oh-oh," definitely emits that minor-key, snake charmer vibe.

What I find interesting now about "Circle in the Sand" is that, unlike many Go-Go's songs, which often sound cheerful and perky on the surface but sport anguished, bitter lyrics, "Circle" is ostensibly a "happy" love song but strikes a more dark and despairing musical tone. Here's how the song reads on the cold, clinical page:

Sundown all around
Walking thru the summer's end
Waves crash baby, don't look back
I won't walk away again

Whoa-oh-oh, baby, anywhere you go
We are bound together
I begin, baby, where you end
Some things are forever

Circle in the sand
Round and round
Never ending love is what we've found
And you complete the heart of me
Our love is all we need
Circle in the sand

Cold wind, tide moves in
Shivers in the salty air
Day breaks, my heart aches
I will wait for you right here

Whoa-oh-oh, baby when you look for me
Can you see forever?
I begin baby, where you end
We belong together

Circle in the sand
Round and round
Rising of the moon as the sun goes down
And you complete the heart of me
Our love is all we need

Baby can you hear me?
Can you hear me calling?

"You complete the heart of me," "We are bound together," "I begin where you end," "Some things are forever" - it reads like an affirmation of appreciation and contentment. Belinda's got her Morgan Mason, and they're dancing on the beach with their millions of dollars, and everything's peachy keen. But notice a couple of lyrics that are not so upbeat: "Cold wind"? Why not warm wind? Isn't it summer? "Shivers in the salty air"? Shivers can't be good. Hell, get a windbreaker. "My heart aches"? Why would your heart ache, Belinda? Never-ending love is what you've found, yes? And what's this little section here?: "Baby can you hear me?/Can you hear me calling?" Why can't Morgan hear her? Maybe he's in the yard? Got his headphones on?

The truth is, no matter how hard you try, you can't take the punk out of the yuppie, and even if you shove it way deep down inside, like nuclear waste in a mountainside, it will somehow find nagging little ways to re-emerge. From Lips Unsealed:

On my previous tour I had seen Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" video and got it in my head that I had to be as thin as her. For this tour, I wanted to be even thinner. The irony was I knew I photographed well no matter what I weighed, and beyond that, in discussions with friends, I always took the position that you didn't need to diet or reshape yourself to look a certain way in order to be beautiful.

I could even hear myself telling girlfriends, "You can diet all you want, but beauty comes from the inside. You have to like yourself before you can ever feel beautiful." But I wasn't listening to my own advice. I had become my mother, a gorgeous woman who had, when I was growing up, always been on a diet even though she didn't need to lose weight. I never understood that until I had done the same thing and later came to realize the diet wasn't at all about weight; it was about feeling inadequate and wanting to be in control.

Once the tour started, I fell into a bad state of mind. Publicly, I told people that either it was impossible to eat healthy on the road or I told them that I was on a health kick and exercising regularly. In reality, I was obsessed with eating and exercising, to the point where I weighed myself ten to fifteen times a day. And my day was ruined if I gained a pound. If I got dressed in the morning and the waistband to my trousers felt a little tight, I got hysterical.

All the self-doubt and insecurity I never dealt with during my so-called recovery bubbled up to the surface, making it so nothing I did made me feel good enough. I should have been ecstatic as "I Get Weak" rocketed up the charts in early 1988 to number two and was then followed into the top 10 by the next single, "Circle in the Sand." My tour sold out, too. However, I wasn't able to celebrate or enjoy the achievements. Instead I stood in front of the mirror when I was on the road or in front of Morgan after I returned home and asked, "Do I look fat? Am I fatter today than yesterday? Okay, forget that. Do I look fatter than I did this morning?"

Jesus. What can you even say to that? (In my personal experience, if a woman ever asks the question, "Do I look fat?," the answer should always be "No.") Personally, Madonna looks like so many things in the "Papa Don't Preach" video, but you know what doesn't pop into my head? How "thin" she looks. But when you're in a certain frame of mind, I guess logic doesn't even play into it.

So in retrospect, one can spot a hint of this buried turmoil in a track like "Circle in the Sand." Belinda's inner torment cuts right through the slick Nowels sleaze in a way that perhaps neither she nor he intended. That voice is such a restless, fiery, raw, jagged, unruly instrument, it can't help but suggest the demons hidden beneath the placid yuppie surface. Examples:

• 1:14 - "Shivers in the salty air": she really sounds like she's shivering
• 1:26 - "Whoa-oh-oh baby, when you look for me/Can you see forever"? Belinda lays into the word "can" like she's ready to rip her lover's head off if he dares to tell her that he cannot, in fact, see forever
• 1:38 - She brings a seriously intense edge to the seemingly banal "We belong together," turning it into something more along the lines of "We belong to-geh-THUUUUUUH!-ahhh-uhhh..." her throat initially shredding itself to pieces in desperation before re-grouping for an exhausted final gasp or two
• 2:08 -"Baby can you hear MAE-AEE-AEE?" Maybe her lover can't hear Belinda's raunchy howl on that one, but I sure as hell can. It seems to gather supernatural force as it exits her lips, accompanied by lightning bolts and rocket fuel - or perhaps some cheap echo effect applied by Nowels - until it becomes swallowed up by the dark, moonlit clouds hovering above
• 2:52 - She takes the "forever" in "some things are forever" quite literally, letting her unnerving crackle linger in the air until it becomes practically imperceptible, Belinda perhaps hoping, like Alice in Wonderland, to become smaller and smaller and smaller, until eventually she might just up and disappear, and wouldn't have to worry about dealing with any of her problems anymore

What I'm trying to say ... is that Belinda sounds kind of fucked up. But I like it! It makes for good art, at least. I hear this riveting tension between the smooth, glistening, almost error-free musical backdrop and Belinda's quirky, unpredictable, and very human voice. Perhaps the most acrobatic vocal moment of her entire career occurs at 2:48. Picture Rick Nowels and Belinda in a traveling trapeze act. The carney below initiates a snare drum roll. Rick is up on the 50-foot tower, his arms outstretched. "You can make it Belinda! Just jump!" The net below is a little worse for the wear. Belinda takes a breath. "And I-I begin baby where you end ..." She made it! She hit that note! Rick grabs her by the fingers as she does a back-flip onto the podium. The audience applauds rapturously.

Now that I've become reacquainted with the song, I have to say that the "Casio bossa nova" beat simply slips into the background once the other instrumentation gets going; like a squeaky fan, it's so omnipresent that I gradually just forget about it. I'm too busy being entranced first by the little tease of flamenco guitar at 0:02, and then Thomas Dolby's synth army of darkness that kicks in at 0:07. Suddenly, during the instrumental break, things get very Alice in Wonderland indeed. At 2:25, a giant cloud of mechanized fleas descends upon Belinda, followed by ... backwards guitars? Belinda's gone Revolver! Please don't spoil her day, she's miles away, and after all, she's only ... doing whatever Rick Nowels is telling her to do. He even throws in some seagull sound effects at the denouement to enhance the seaside vibe (at least these seagulls sound less menacing than the ones that threatened Don Henley on "Boys of Summer"), while guitars both acoustic and electric trail off into the horizon. For Adult Contemporary ear candy, "Circle in the Sand" is kind of ... out there.

Which leads me to the video. Perhaps sensing that the Diane Keaton touch wouldn't have quite been "powerful" enough to do the piece justice, Belinda & Co. went in a more ... avant garde direction. Enter British music video director Peter Care, who initially made his name with videos for decidedly un-Yuppie artists such as Cabaret Voltaire, Killing Joke, Depeche Mode, and Public Image Ltd. But everyone needs a paycheck at some point, and by 1986 he began dipping his toes into the mainstream, directing clips for Tina Turner, Simply Red, Robbie Nevil ("C'est la Vie," anyone?), and even Bananarama's "Venus" (so was the flaming volcano his idea?). Eventually he would find a nice balance between film school and MTV in a lasting partnership with R.E.M., directing seven of their videos, most famously the haunting clip for "Man on the Moon." Peter Care is that guy, OK? Big time, creative, visionary music video auteur. Basically, what I'm saying is that Belinda was climbing the music video ladder here. No more "Hey, you're fun to hang out with, wanna direct my video?" Peter Care was one artsy-fartsy motherfucker. And get ready for one artsy-fartsy video.

Because "Circle in the Sand" is The. Most. Hypnotic. Video. Ever.

I could just watch it play in a giant loop until I turned to dust. It creates its own surreal oceanic dreamscape. Imagine Belinda Carlisle spending a summer day on the Beach at the End of the World. This video exists on its own mini-planet, in its own mini-solar system, in its own mini-galaxy.

First of all, thumbs up for the cinematography. I feel like I'm staring at the ocean for the very first time in my life. There's something calming and also unsettling about the very texture of the film itself. I've got to admit it, Care really put his Sheffield School of Art degree to work here. Favorite moments:

• 0:01 - Opening shot. Two screens are dangling from a clothesline at a beach. There's an image of the beach being "projected" onto each screen. They look similar to the image of the beach that's actually behind them, except ... they're ... different. One screen has an intimidating rock formation on it, and the other screen has Belinda Carlisle sitting in a chair (next to an empty chair) on it. Like, what's happening, man?
• 0:11 - A shot that's very similar to the opening shot, except, unlike before, both screens are showing an image that is almost exactly the same as the image behind them, but the thing is ... the images are still slightly different. Right? It's a mindfuck.
• 0:23 - There's a giant movie screen in the middle of the ocean ... with Belinda singing on it. Can you image the wear and tear on that thing? The rust on the metal would be unheard of. 
• 1:18 - As Belinda sings "Daybreak, baby, my heart aches," the camera zooms out to gradually reveal Belinda standing next to some weather-beaten, half-demolished shack, and she's just ... standing there. She's not even singing along with the audio. It's all ... abstract.
• 1:26 - As she sings "Whoa-oh-oh baby when you look for me," etc., we are given an extreme close-up of Belinda's face as she dangles from a rope swing, and again ... her mouth isn't even budging. It's like Care is playing with the notion that the performer in a music video is ever genuinely "performing" her vocal in front of the camera, by interspersing shots of Belinda lip-syncing with shots of Belinda simply ... staring. Also, this shot makes me realize just how massive Belinda's cheekbones are.
• 1:54 - She fondles a rope swing even more sensually than George Michael did in the "Careless Whisper" video. And check out that sunset.
• 2:40 - Belinda really was the master of rubbing her back against inanimate objects in music videos, as she once again demonstrates here with the aid of a giant board that almost resembles a crucifix. Hey, I'd nail Belinda to a cross, if you know what I mean.
• 3:20 - I love the way she bobs against the rope swing, closing her eyes, dangling her head, as if all she wants to do in that moment is gently sway to the relaxing rhythm of her own soothing music, stay in her little cuddly fantasy world, and never return to the ugly reality of everyday life. Well I want to stay in the "Circle in the Sand" video with you too, Belinda. I don't want to go back either.

Belinda's tasteful fashion choices do much to give the video its impressively non-1988 feel. Let's call this her "hot English schoolteacher" phase. She looks like she just walked straight off the set of a BBC television adaptation of To The Lighthouse or Lady Chatterley's Lover (another blogger writes that she resembles a Douglas Sirk heroine). Frankly, I think the ocean and Belinda are having a beauty contest - I can't decide which one of these creations, in the supple hands of Peter Care, looks more stunning.

So just where was this "Beach at the End of the World" anyway? Initially I assumed it must have been some remote locale off the coast of Ireland, or Britain, or even Australia (it looks too cold to be Southern California), but according to this clip, Belinda might not have been as far away from me during the Summer of '88 as I might have assumed:

Ha! Half Moon Bay, eh? You're damn right it's cold. Those are certainly some gorgeous beaches, though - when they aren't covered with fog. I wonder which one it was. Martin's Beach? San Gregorio? Pescadero? Pomponio? How did they even find parking?

But don't you see what this means? Belinda, in a way, was with me, near me, beside me, even in those tender days of youth. I could feel her presence on that beach, fondling that rope, rubbing that wood, circling that sand, even if I couldn't have named it. We inhabited that same world, shared the same dream. There on that beach, in the Summer of '88, we danced eternally in the cosmos to a Casio beat and a Thomas Dolby synth line ... and perhaps are dancing there still.

Hey Now, Hey Now, Don't Dream You Only Had One Big U.S. Hit Single

Why didn't they just ... move into a bigger house? Build an extra room? Get a futon? Maybe one of the guys could've slept in the car? Look at it this way: at least the rent was probably cheap. On the other hand, "Crowded House" was probably a much stronger name than the band's original choice, "The Mullanes." Yowsers.

While these days he's serving as the awkward new substitute for Lindsey Buckingham in the international conglomerate otherwise known as Fleetwood Mac, back in the day, Neil Finn wasn't even the main singer/songwriter in his former band. Hell, he wasn't even the main Finn brother in his former band. That said, older brother Tim, either with Split Enz or solo, never had an American hit the size of "Don't Dream It's Over." Though Crowded House more or less feels like a one-hit wonder, it turns out they actually had another Top 10 U.S. single: "Something So Strong" peaked at #7. Apparently it wasn't "strong" enough to stay in the popular consciousness, because I don't remember hearing it much at the time, nor have I heard it much since. I'm sure it has its partisans; it sounds like a Paul Carrack B-side to me. But you know what? If Americans only remember Crowded House for one song (they were regular fixtures on the UK and Australian singles charts all the way into the late '90s), well, it's one hell of a song:

There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There's a battle ahead
Many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're travelling with me

Hey now, Hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, Hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win

Now I'm towing my car
There's a hole in the roof
My possessions are causing me suspicion
But there's no proof
In the paper today
Tales of war and of waste
But you turn right over to the TV page

Now I'm walking again
To the beat of a drum
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart
Only shadows ahead
Barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling of liberation and release

Here's how great of a song "Don't Dream It's Over" is: I only realized, just now, after 30 years of having listened to this sucker, when I copied and pasted these lyrics, that the lines hardly even rhyme! Hey man, rhymes are just walls people are trying to build between Neil Finn and his poignant, abstract observations, OK? The lyrics have this intriguingly vague '80s mixture of "We're gonna make it, baby" relationship imagery and "The Cold War's almost over, I can taste it" political hopefulness. Besides, when you've got a massive, jangly guitar that's jangling all the way into next Tuesday (particularly at 1:21 and 2:46), who needs rhymes? Not to mention a hymn-like organ and those eerily high-pitched harmonies on the octave-jumping chorus. Yep. They built this one to last.

Whether I like it or not, "Don't Dream It's Over" is one of those songs that immediately, unavoidably ... takes me back. I find its sad, aching quality two-fold: I feel the sadness that the song itself conjures, and I also feel the sadness of all the time that has passed since this song was blanketing the radio waves, and the sadness of all the ways in which my life has changed in thirty years, both "within" and "without." It's the kind of song I can't listen to too closely, or I'll get crushed by the weight of those pesky little things called ... what are those things called again? You know, they used to be in pop songs all the time but they rarely have them anymore? Wait, it's coming to me ... "emotions"! That's what they're called. The moment the song is over, I kind of want to put on "Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car," just to lighten the mood.

One more observation: I remember listening, back in high school, to a radio special about the history of rock and roll, and after airing a segment about John Lennon's assassination, the program promptly played "Don't Dream It's Over." As a result, for years, I assumed this song was somehow related to Lennon's death, or the "end of the '60s," but if it is, Wikipedia sure doesn't have anything to say about it. I've often wondered why that radio special would have chosen to play this particular song in relation to that event; "Don't Dream It's Over" didn't even come out until 1986, by which point the phenomenal success of Yoko Ono's solo career had long rendered John a distant memory. But recently I recalled that "God" on Plastic Ono Band contains the iconic lyric, "The dream is over." Surely Mr. Finn was aware of this lyric somewhere in the back of his mind, yes? Indeed, in 1986 it surely must have felt like "the dream," however one chose to define it, most definitely was over. Hell, Lennon proclaimed the dream "over" ... in 1970! By 1986 "the dream" must have looked like a shriveled corpse soaked in formaldehyde, floating face-up in the neighbor's algae-ridden pool. "Tales of war and of waste/But you turn right over to the TV page"? Damn right I do. Who wants to hear about Nicaragua and AIDS? What time is Perfect Strangers on? But Neil Finn hadn't given up on the dream, damn it. Bruce Hornsby, you've got company.

The tastefully surreal video was apparently a nice resume-builder for future The Crow/Dark City director Alex Proyas. I know that things work a little differently in New Zealand than they do here in the northern hemisphere, but you'd think they'd do something about that floating, shattering dish problem they seem to have. Hey now, hey now, somebody get a dustpan.

"The Way It Is": Yuppie Rock Even A West Coast Gangsta Could Love

Though they certainly tried, when it came to '80s Guilt Rock, I don't know if Phil Collins, Bono, Don Henley et al. ever topped Bruce Hornsby & the Range's "The Way It Is."

In December of 1986, two weeks after Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" peaked at #1 on the US Billboard charts, and one week after Peter Cetera and Amy Grant hit the pole position with "The Next Time I Fall," Bruce Hornsby & the Range topped that very same chart with "The Way It Is." If I may, allow me to share with you the extremely fun, sexy, feel-good, party 'til you drop lyrics  of "The Way It Is":

Standing in line, marking time
Waiting for the welfare dime
'Cause they can't buy a job
The man in a silk suit hurries by
And as he catches a poor old lady's eye
Just for fun he says
"Get a job"

That's just the way it is
Some things will never change
That's just the way it is
Ah, but don't you believe them

Said hey little boy
You can't go where the others go
'Cuz you don't look like they do
Said hey old man
How can you stand to think that way
And did you really think about it
Before you made the rules
He said, son

That's just the way it is
Some things will never change
That's just the way it is
Ah, but don't you believe them

Well they passed a law in '64
To give those who ain't got a little more
But it only goes so far
Because the law don't change another's mind
When all it sees at the hiring time
Is the line on the color bar

Geez. Can you say "buzzkill"? Somebody wasn't doing enough coke at the strip club that week.

I love cracking jokes about vapid hair metal and pre-packaged dance-pop as much as the next '80s music blogger, but every once in a while, you know, I've got to give the '80s listening public a little bit of credit. Because how did this song become a #1 hit? There's not a single deployment of the word "baby" in it, let alone "babe," "girl," or even "honey." Here's a word that should have automatically disqualified it from receiving significant radio play: "welfare." He says "welfare." On a hit single! The label should have, like, bleeped it out or something. Oh, and on top of that, he's sprinkling these absurdly jazzy piano solos all over the place. It's like if Bill Evans or Keith Jarrett decided to go electro-pop. I'll give Hornsby this much: if his goal was to scale the charts, he sure didn't make it easy on himself.

On the other hand, I can see why the song became a hit. It became a hit ... because good lord, it's catchy. Who gives a crap about all the depressing socio-political mumbo jumbo he's singing about? Listen to that piano riff! I was six years old when the song came out, and even though most of the subject matter undoubtedly flew right over my brilliant (for six) little head, you better believe I was singing along. Talk about a toe-tapping groove. And Hornsby's voice doesn't croak and wheeze like Dylan or Leonard Cohen or somebody who obviously only got a record deal on the strength of their lyricism. He sounds like yer average soft rock crooner. It's a death trap.



In fact, "The Way It Is" sounds for all the world like an '80s "comeback" hit from a former '60s superstar, not the second single from an artist's debut album. Granted, Hornsby was roughly 30 years old at the time, but he somehow managed to come across as if he'd already released fifteen records and was still recovering from the bad acid he'd dropped at Watkins Glen. It's a little unclear to me exactly who the "Range" were, as the instrumentation seems to consist of Hornsby's fluttering piano and eight brand new synthesizers. (Side note: who names their band "the Range"? People cannot be a "range." Range, as in open countryside, where the deer and the antelope play, right? And doesn't your band have to be plural? You can't be "Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker." Or maybe he meant the kitchen appliance. Maybe their original name was "Bruce Hornsby and the Hot Plate.")

Now I'm as sharp as they come, but I have to admit that the last verse has never made complete sense to me, and it seems like it was intended to be this powerful, emotionally affecting verse, so the fact that I've never understood it ... has always irked me. What, precisely, is a "color bar"? Aren't those the blocky graphics you see when your TV isn't working right? That's probably not what he's talking about. Maybe he's referring to a line on a job application where the applicant is asked to state his or her "color"? Now, I don't know what job applications looked like in the '80s, but I'm fairly certain this is illegal in 2018 (applications might ask for "ethnicity" but not "color" - if even that). I think his point is that bias still persists among employers even though the law has rendered "explicit" bias illegal, but if so, I'm not sure he made it terribly clear. AMG's William Ruhlmann describes the song as "a brave if somewhat clumsily written attack on the heartless right-wing politics of the mid-'80s ... The boldness of the statement and the lovely piano theme more than compensate for the awkward writing ..." OK, cool, so it's not just me then!

One line I think I do understand is the last line of the chorus. In the verses, Hornsby lists several socio-economic situations that sound bleak and hopeless, and then, in the chorus, at first he seems to suggest apathy, but it turns out that he's merely been parroting other people's apathy, because his own stance is, "Ah, but don't you believe them." That line really turns the whole song around. You know what? I'm with Hornsby on this one. Change is slow, change is stubborn, but that doesn't mean that "some things never change." In fact, a sure-fire way to guarantee that something unpleasant will never change is to declare that "it'll never change." Let me whip out a little MLK here: "The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice. Bee-otch."

He probably didn't say that last part.

But I know who probably thought he did. Before I explored rap in earnest, I would always come across writers who described Tupac as some sort of "socially conscious" gangsta rapper. When I eventually sat down and listened to Me Against the World and All Eyez On Me, well ... if I squinted and tilted my head, I could sorta kinda see two or three songs that seemed to address "social issues," but compared to, say, Public Enemy or Ice Cube, he seemed like weak tea to me. I guess Death Row was merely waiting 'til he croaked (the dead no longer needing to constantly maintain a "bad ass thug incapable of sensitive introspection" image) to release some of his more thoughtful work.



Wait a second, is that a sample of ...? Oh yeah. That's right. Tupac took Bruce Hornsby to the ghetto. Can I see the members of the Range put their hands in the air and wave 'em like they just don't care? One, two, three and to the f'oh, Bruce Hornsby & the Range is at the d'oh, ready to make an entrance so back on up, 'cause you know they 'bout to ... rip that piano up? Notice how, when a '90s rapper chose to sample a political song from the '80s, he didn't sample a track from some polemical indie band like the Minutemen or Minor Threat that rock critics were drooling over; he sampled Bruce Hornsby's "The Way It Is." Because hey, that was the kind of white "political" rock that actually made its way to his neighborhood! Black inner city kids probably weren't listening to SST Records.

One "change" I never quite understood about "Changes" is why Pac (or his posthumous production team) altered the chorus of "The Way It Is" from "Some things'll never change" to "Things'll never be the same." Isn't Tupac's whole point that, actually, so many things (the War on Drugs, black-on-black crime, the disproportionate amount of black men in prison) are still the same? What does Tupac's disembodied ghost have to say about this thematic inconsistency? Of course, there are those who claim he's been dead for 20 years. Ah, but don't you believe them.