Swede Emotion: The Single-Minded Purity Of Roxette

Oh, to be Roxette.

What a blessing it must have been, what a gift from the gods, to have had one, and only one, ambition in life: to make the proverbial "perfect" pop song. What a psychological load off one's back. So many performers struggle with the weight of social import, or cultural legacy. Roxette just said "Screw all that shit!"

Here is a recording duo that harbored no delusions about their goals, suffered from no misplaced sense of artistic significance, aspired to no heights they could not reach. Roxette once released a compilation titled Don't Bore Us, Get To The Chorus! (a phrase apparently coined by Berry Gordy, a musician also not terribly concerned with the intellectual heft of his work). Has a more inspiring manifesto ever been adopted?

In my old paperback version of the All Music Guide, Stephen Thomas Erlewine wrote, in his Roxette bio, "It's tempting to write Roxette off as nothing more than a shallow pop-rock band, but their shameless hooks are precisely what makes them so enjoyable. Roxette has a knack for writing extremely catchy and simple hooks and melodies that are sweet but not saccharine; it's radio-friendly pop, but the hooks don't wear thin with repeated plays." Well, I don't know about the rest of their catalog, but, speaking for myself, I can name you exactly three songs from the duo of Per Gessle and Marie Fredriksson whose hooks, I've found, have yet to wear thin. You want to know how thick these hooks are? Let's just say I've licked these particular Tootsie Pops a thousand times, and still haven't reached the center.

In the history of rock, many great lyrics have been composed, but none, I fear, have surpassed the following:

Walking like a man, hitting like a hammer
She's a juvenile scam, never was a quitter
Tasty like a raindrop, she's got the look

Heavenly bound, cause heaven's got her number
When she's spinning me around, kissing is the color
Her loving is a wild dog, she's got the look

Fire in the ice, naked to the t-bone
Is a lover's disguise, banging on the head drum
Shakin' like a mad bull, she's got the look

Swaying to the band, movin' like a hammer
She's a miracle man, lovin' is the ocean
Kissin' is the wet sand, she's got the look

Well, Morrissey, you certainly had a good run, but clearly, by 1989, your time as rock's greatest wordsmith had finally passed. Seriously, what was the concept here? Just string a bunch of evocative phrases together, rap-sing them at a machine gun pace, and pray to Thor (or whatever god the Swedes believe in) that no one notices? Allow me, if I may, to write a few extra verses of Roxette's "The Look":

Itching like a bird, kicking like a cookie
She's a lovable razor, screamin' like a jerky
Fuzzy is a hot dog, she's got the look

Water in the ocean, drinking like a gator
If she moves in time, got to see her later
Heavy like a fire hose, she's got the look

Can I ask you something? How could there possibly be "fire in the ice"? How could "She" be a "miracle man"? Is kissing "the color" or "the wet sand"? Are they "hitting like a hammer" or "movin' like a hammer"? It just doesn't add up people. It just ... doesn't ... add ... up. By the end of the chorus, Roxette have quite obviously cast aside any pretense of effort, the lyrics literally consisting of the phrase, "And I go la la la la la." I want to be angry with them, but they were absolutely right to phone this in. It didn't matter!

The opening guitar lick reminds me of the riff that kicks off the Monkees' "Pleasant Valley Sunday"; let's just say that if Roxette were aiming for Bubblegum glory, they couldn't have aimed any higher. The main chord progression is basically "Hey Jude"/"Sympathy for the Devil" but they throw so many rhythmic twists and turns in there that they give that tired progression a fresh new sheen, like a Taco Bell menu item that simply combines the same five familiar ingredients into an unexpectedly arresting shape.

In the liner notes to Don't Bore Us, Get To The Chorus!, Per Gessle describes "Listen to Your Heart" like so: "The Big Bad Ballad. This is us trying to recreate that overblown American FM-rock sound to the point where it almost becomes absurd. We really wanted to see how far we could take it." And just how far could Roxette take it?

Farther than the naked eye can see.

"Listen to Your Heart" is a power ballad so big, it probably ate twelve other power ballads on its way to school. "Listen to Your Heart" is so big, Jupiter and Saturn have to stand on a stool in order to see over it. You're momma's so fat ... But arguably not even the sight of a massive crowd swaying their arms (and sparklers) back and forth inside the ruins of Borgholm Castle on the Swedish Baltic Sea island of Öland is a sight epic enough to capture the grandeur of "Listen to Your Heart." You think the "hair metal meets ABBA" guitar solo is big enough? How about the ascending bridge doused with a wall of "ah!" backing vocals? That big enough for you? How about a TUKC where Marie Fredriksson tries to out-do her double-tracked self through two rounds of the chorus? No, sorry, none of those moments really max out the "epic" meter on a song as epic as "Listen to Your Heart." The moment that does that is the moment I would like to call The Pause. Marie appears to have finally pinched the last loaf from her bowel movement ("I don't know where you're goooooo-innnn"), then takes a breath, chills for a couple of bars ("before .... you tell him goodbye"), apparently gets splashed by a wave from the Baltic Sea, and presumably retires for the evening. A listener could reasonably assume that the track is making its way toward the fade-out, as the piano and conga drums rise in the mix. Great job guys, I'm gonna go check the sports scores. Then BLAM. The song blazes for another 90 seconds, Marie returning for a series of soaring encores, like a poop that just keeps spewing out fiery chunks of waste long past the point of logic.



Like Grease, Say Anything, and Dirty Dancing, Pretty Woman is another one of those movies with a target audience that probably does not include me. I have never seen it. It turns out that "It Must Have Been Love" was merely refurbished for Pretty Woman and not written explicitly for it, so I suppose I don't have to resent it on account of that association? Besides, isn't this a bitter ballad about love lost? Is there an unbearably sad scene in the movie where the spirit of this song serves a genuine purpose, or does it simply play on somebody's car radio for 30 seconds? In the end, it matters not. Quick anecdote about the video from Wikipedia: "According to Fredriksson, shooting this video was a surreal experience, as [director Doug] Freel 'wanted all movements in slow motion, so I had to lip-sync the vocals at double speed. My first lesson in how to sing an emotional ballad Mickey Mouse style.'" Where can I find that version?

So fine, they're not exactly Bjork, OK, but here's why, ironically, I don't find Roxette's brand of "disposable" pop all that disposable: Marie Fredriksson sings with too much genuine passion. I'm not sure how old she was during Roxette's heyday, but unlike so many 21st century pop singers, who sound like high schoolers, Marie sounds like she's been around the block a couple of times. She's slept under an overpass for an evening or two,  if you know what I mean. Listen (with your heart) to the outro of "It Must Have Been Love," starting around the 3:00 mark. I mean, that's some heavy shit right there. Fredriksson suggests rage, sweetness, sincerity, feistiness, and a touch a weariness all at the same time. I think if I walked up to her and called this song "schlock," she would probably spit in my face. She means it, man. And if she's invested in what she's doing, then I'm invested in what she's doing. Sometimes "art" is the last refuge of scoundrels who don't know what the hell they're in it for. Sleep easy, Roxette. After all these years, your juvenile scam still hits like a hammer.

Herbert Walker Memories

Eventually, as all things must, the '80s came to an end.

But despite what a glance at the calendar might indicate, it did not, in fact, end overnight. What I'm trying to say is that there is such a thing as "time," and then there is such a thing as "pop music time." And "pop music time," you see, is slightly more elastic, more elusive, more elliptical. It ignores the clean divisions of astronomy - at least for a year or so. For instance, when people talk about the pop music of "the '60s," aren't they really talking about the era between 1964 and 1970? In a sense, the pop music of 1960-1963 almost belongs more to the '50s. It was that double whammy of the JFK assassination and the British Invasion that truly launched "the '60s," right? What? What's that you say? Bob Dylan, the Beach Boys, and several Motown artists had already released significant recordings by then? Doesn't fit the narrative! Shoo! Be gone!

All right, fine. All definitions of eras in art are basically bullshit. And yet.

I can't help but think of the years 1989 and 1990 as an era of its own - a transitional phase in pop music, a period that, like the reign of our recently departed former president, was not quite fully '80s and not quite fully '90s. On a Venn diagram, it would register as that grayed-out crap in the middle. That said, it was definitely more '80s than '90s. In the Little Earl History of Popular Music, the '90s didn't truly evolve into the '90s until 1991. I look back at the artists who were dominating the charts in 1990, and they were either holdover acts from the '80s, or acts who, for the most part, would wither and crumble to dust in a year or so (Wilson Phillips, anybody?). But when I look back at the artists who were dominating the charts in 1991, I see the '90s. Let me amend that slightly. When I look back at the artists who were dominating the album charts in 1991, I see the '90s. Several albums from the more "alternative" end of the spectrum came out in 1991 and managed to top the charts, or come very close to it: Nevermind, Metallica, Achtung Baby, Out Of Time, Ten, Blood Sugar Sex Magik. This, as far as I'm concerned, was the true start of the '90s.

As for the Billboard Hot 100, I don't know what I see. Lots of Amy Grant and Cathy Dennis. But honestly, that was just another element of the transition: I don't know what byzantine methodology Billboard was employing at this point, but I feel like, in the '90s, the Hot 100 ceased to be an accurate reflection of the music that people in the '90s were actually listening to. Radio began fragmenting into subcategories like hip-hop, modern rock, and ... whatever the hell Amy Grant and Cathy Dennis were. There really was no true "Top 40 radio" any longer. There are several rap and alternative rock singles from the '90s that those who were following music at the time might remember as having been "huge" hits (such as "C.R.E.A.M." or "Closer"), but if you go look up their actual chart positions, you'll see that they barely dented the Hot 100 (#60 and #41, respectively). Sure, they were huge hits on the Rap chart, or the Modern Rock chart, but not on what had apparently become the Suburban Housewives' Chart. Whereas when I look at the Hot 100 charts from the '80s, I think to myself, "Yeah! That's exactly all the cheesy shit that was being played to death on the radio!"

There's a bit more at play here. In terms of my own biography, the period of 1989-1990 was the last period of pop music I actively followed and devoted actual attention to as it was occurring. Here, if you will, is what happened. In March of 1991, my favorite Top 40 station, 99.7 X100, suddenly, decisively, without warning, became 99.7 KFRC - an oldies station. "Oldies"? You mean there was music that came out ... before the '80s? I was shocked, stunned, aghast, appalled. Up to this point in my existence, unlike many of my peers, I had received virtually no exposure to oldies. So it turned out that oldies and me were meant to be. I became an instant convert and never looked back. For some reason, I decided I preferred this band called the Beatles to acts such as Milli Vanilli and Paula Abdul. Sure, I lingered around for a couple of months or so - I vividly remember a school mate lustily crooning "I Want to Sex You Up" on the playground, to the consternation of the yard attendant - but all I know is that, by about September of 1991, I had checked out of contemporary pop music entirely. Split the scene, flew the coop. When I recall that period, I could almost swear that I had literally traveled back in time to England circa 1967. You know that pastoral, vaguely Victorian landscape that the Beatles are seen frolicking around in while sporting their new and yet strangely ageless mustaches in the "Strawberry Fields" promotional film? I think that is literally where I spent the early '90s.

In other words, I missed it. Flat-out missed it. I missed all the moments that my peers tend to discuss these days as universally-experienced early '90s cultural touchstones. The "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video? Missed it. Kurt Cobain's suicide? Missed it. I mean yeah, I vaguely remember somebody mentioning that Kurt Cobain had killed himself, but it meant absolutely squat to me at the time. "Guy was probably an asshole anyway," is what I'm guessing I thought. Frankly, I didn't even know the difference between Nirvana and Metallica. As far as I was concerned, they were both really loud, angry, guitar-heavy bands that had just released albums that consisted of 12 tracks each, with the first song on each album being the big "hit" song with the catchy guitar riff. Grunge? Metal? Same diff.

Here's how I know that all those albums from 1991 I listed above represent the "real" start of the '90s: I have almost no recollection of hearing them. I remember my classmates talking about them. I remember feeling that this new music was "not my thing," in the same sense that dating girls was "not my thing." I did not feel "cool" enough or "hip" enough to relate to this new music. In retrospect, '80s music, overall, was quite dorky. Really dorky. I had no trouble relating to '80s music. But in March of 1991, I fell down the oldies rabbit hole and didn't claw my way out for years. I think in September of 1993, the cable company in my town accidentally included MTV and VH1 in my family's cable package for roughly two weeks. It was like a glimpse into another era - one far removed from my own. What was this "Blind Melon" and "Soul Asylum"? You mean Janet Jackson was still making music? So confusing. I didn't genuinely listen to those big "alternative" albums from 1991 until about 1998, toward the end of high school and the beginning of college. (Long story short: I'm all caught up now!) My point is, maybe this shift between 1990 and 1991 wasn't much of a shift at all. But when I hear a song from 1989 or 1990, as opposed to a song from slightly later, all sorts of associations from that era fill my spherical ol' cranium, whereas when I hear a song that came out after 1990, I associate it with some guy in college telling me how "awesome this video was when it first premiered on MTV!" I could not blog about the pop music of 1991. I simply wasn't there. Herbert Walker Memories is the end of the line.

So, 1989-1990. In retrospect, this period was whack. Alternative music genuinely began peaking through the layers of Top 40 gauze, but only here and there, and only the more palatable, streamlined strands. Maybe mainstream radio could handle the Cure and Depeche Mode at this juncture, but it wasn't quite ready for, say, the Pixies or the Jesus and Mary Chain (wouldn't have been prudent). Still, as I reflect on the era with my increased level of rock scholarliness, I can't help but be impressed by how many artists with a vague whiff of "alternative" about them managed to score hits so massive that even nine-year-old me could get caught up in the buzz. Did I, at that tender age, pick up on the difference between, say, Roxette and the B-52's? Did I realize that one act was an unapologetically chart-humping duo from Sweden, and the other act a queer-friendly outgrowth of the Athens, GA scene? How about the difference between Paula Abdul and the Fine Young Cannibals? Did I realize that one artist was a choreographer with a whiny voice who decided to give dance-pop a shot because why the fuck not, and that the other artist was a Northern soul-flavored splinter group of the English Beat (with origins stretching back to the British ska revival of 1979)?

Oh heyyyyyll no.

And that is precisely my point. Sitting here in 2019, I have to ask myself, "What the fuck kind of an era was this?" But see, at the time, these were just the hits on the radio. There wasn't anything odd about it. Only now can I pick out all the strange cross-currents and unexpected artistic bedfellows. For example, it's interesting to observe the manner in which rap began its lengthy trickle into the upper reaches of the charts during these years - but not the Public Enemy, N.W.A., Slick Rick kind of rap. Oh no. It was more like the Technotronic, Snap!, Young MC, Tone Loc, Biz Markie, "We Didn't Start the Fire" kind of rap. There were non-rap songs that would suddenly feature a verse of rap without warning. Artists would use a dash of rap as flavoring, not serve it up as the main course. People couldn't handle that yet.

I'm tempted to say that the 1989-1990 era of mainstream pop has been "critically underappreciated" or "overlooked," but let me clarify. About eight years ago, as my obsession with '80s music grew to a borderline unhealthy degree, I downloaded every Billboard Year-End Top 100 list from 1980 through 1990, and then proceeded to listen to those lists straight through, from the #1 song of the year down to the #100 song. As far as I was concerned, the year-end lists from 1980 through 1988 offered up some fairly solid listening, even toward the back end of each year. But when I got to 1989 and 1990, I noticed an interesting trend. Each list contained, I would say, about 25 to 30 tracks that I was inclined to categorize as first-rate, artistically inventive, melodically arresting songs that have held up well and still sound great today, and then about 70 to 75 songs that may have been popular at the time but, in my opinion, do not really merit repeat listening and might even be songs that I actively dislike. I'm talking about the soggy residue of hair metal, adult contemporary pop, and new jack R&B. What I'm saying is that if you separate the wheat from the chaff and only listen to the wheat (suddenly I'm in the mood to play a Bread album), you would think that this was an incredibly rich and rewarding era of pop music! But a comprehensive analysis of the era does not, I think, bear this view out. I feel like, in that 1989-1990 period, the great songs were great, and the crappy songs were crappy. There was no in-between.

But boy, that minority of excellence sure paints an evocative picture. Follow me, now, on a journey I would like to dub "Herbert Walker Memories."

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.

Belinda '88 Interview Highlights AKA Who Knew Identity Crisis Could Be This Much Fun?

While late '80s corporate gloss may have dulled Belinda's musical rough edges, it certainly didn't dull her cagey, self-loathing interviewing habits. Here, for example, is a clip from an unknown Australian program with a suave male interviewer wearing a "peace sign" t-shirt who actually seems to have been following Belinda's career and isn't merely babbling on and on about how great she looks, although I wouldn't have blamed him if he had done so (personally, my first question to Belinda would have been "How was the Polynesian wedding you've apparently just returned from?"). The most amusing moment is when he assumes that she left the Go-Go's in order to establish her artistic independence, and she gazes up at the ceiling awkwardly for several seconds before clarifying that, actually, she left the Go-Go's because ... the Go-Go's imploded and she didn't have anything else better to do:

Interviewer: You've had a fairly successful solo career already, are you doing the things that you wanted to do? I mean, you left the Go-Go's to become a solo artist, are you, you know, are you getting those thoughts and ideas down?
Belinda: Well I left the Go-Go's because we weren't getting along and -
Interviewer: Oh.
Belinda: - and I knew (giggles) and I knew that, um, I'd eventually be able to have a solo career and um, I feel very fortunate to have come from a successful band and have success on my own now.

Yes, Belinda, are you getting those crucial "thoughts and ideas" down? Thoughts like "Why is Madonna thinner than me?" or "Am I lying if I say that I don't have a drug problem if I'm at least not doing coke?" (Fortunately, the day would come when Belinda would get those magical thoughts and ideas down, but surprisingly, the medium of song was not the form those thoughts and ideas would take.)



Here's Belinda at a press conference giving a fresh spin on the old tale of how she met Morgan. This particular telling seems to be equal parts candid and loopy:



Money quote: "We met and he walked away and I thought, 'He's not interested,' but ... uh ... in actuality it turned out that he was just sort of shy but I thought that he thought that I was, you know, better looking in pictures."

Like Dracula, '80s Belinda always looks mildly uncomfortable whenever she's being interviewed in daylight. Here she is squinting her way through what feels like more of an interrogation than an interview, in sunglasses and an oversized white t-shirt. I don't know what question she's just been asked in this clip, but based on her answer, I'm assuming it was something like "Why is your music so disposable?" Her hilariously defensive reply:

"There are some pop acts and pop artists that are great at ... uh ... giving messages and providing messages for people, and I wish I could do that but it just seems more natural for me to provide an escape, and ... um ... to uh sort of ... you know it's not mindless music but it's escape-type music and that's just as important sometimes as, you know ... being political, or, uh, listening to message-type music."

Translation: You got a problem with my music? Well kiss my ass. The thing is ... she's right! I cannot begin to tally the amount of hours Belinda's music has helped me escape the gnawing dread of modern existence. In another portion of that same interview, she reveals that even she is not that into hearing herself on the radio twenty-four hours a day:

"I think that I've been on the radio for almost a year now, and that's a long time. I can afford to take a little bit of a break. I don't want people to get real sick of me ... I know how it feels as a fan to hear, like, the same voices on the radio ... it keeps a career healthy to give people a little bit of a break from you."

Well, Belinda certainly wouldn't have needed to worry about becoming overexposed on U.S. Top 40 radio for very much longer. Hi-Yo! But seriously, can we go ahead and give this woman a "Pop Star Humility" award? It's like she's flipped the script. You're supposed to say, "I want to be the biggest star in the world!" Instead, she's saying, "Eh."

There's something about the Swedes - I don't know what it is, but they always manage to add an extra bit of zaniness to Belinda interviews. Smack in the middle of a discussion of Belinda's drug problems, a fire alarm goes off. The message: Belinda's drug problems were a four-alarm fire. I love the tone of her answer, and the look on her face, when the spiky-haired Swedish interviewer asks, "What do you have to say about drugs today?": She pinches her nose slightly, as if someone has handed her a plate of moldy cheese, and blurts out "Just don't even start!" Well there you go, folks. Belinda Carlisle's 12-step plan for dealing with drug addiction: Don't even start! Boom, easy, done.



This segment from People Magazine practically writes itself. "When Belinda Carlisle sings that heaven is a place on earth, you get the feeling that she really means it. This is a woman who's found heaven. The darling of college campuses across the nation, a fraternity house favorite has emerged as the Princess of Pop." First of all: "college campuses"? Would the interviewer put the bong down? I am not aware of Belinda having achieved any particularly high levels of popularity on college campuses. Was the host getting Belinda mixed up with ... 10,000 Maniacs? Second: "Princess of Pop?" No, no, no. The correct title is "Queen of Yuppie Rock." Who was writing this copy? The interviewer's lack of concern for anything other than the juiciest details of Belinda's struggles is admirably apparent; her facial expression as she asks "How did you justify your drug use?" suggests a hint of arousal. After Belinda rattles off a list of all her favorite support groups with breezy nonchalance ("Narcotics Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, Cocaine Anonymous"), the host explains via voiceover, "She herself had become almost totally anonymous, but now she's regained her own identity and her self-confidence." Smooth segue! I've rarely seen Belinda rocking the ponytail look as she does here, but dear me it's cute - particularly when she pairs it with ... hold on a second, are those skull earrings? You can't make this shit up.



So as 1988 turned to 1989, even the ever-skeptical Belinda had to admit that she'd finally done it. She'd managed to step out of the shadow of her former group to become an equally popular star in her own right, if not more popular (certainly globally). Well, how did it feel? Did she bask in the triumph? Did she stick out her tongue and tell all those naysayers "Neener neener neener"? Did she bathe in the blood of her victims? Not exactly. From Lips Unsealed [note: although she refers to herself by her stepfather's last name in the passage below, her birth name is indeed Carlisle]:

As I kicked off the "Good Heavens" tour, I asked Morgan if it was real or if I was dreaming. It seemed like a mistake. I figured it had to be. He didn't know how to deal with that kind of mind-set other than to tell me to realize that these things were not accidents; I had worked hard for years.

His comment caused me to flash back to a time when I was on tour in the early days of the Go-Go's, just as the band was first taking off. It all seemed too fantastic; I had a moment right before we went onstage when I wondered where I was going to be ten years later. Now I knew. A couple of days into the tour, I had another similar sort of moment. I was standing behind the curtain, atop a small platform, getting set to descend the three stairs as the spotlight hit me, and yet instead of breathing, focusing, and doing all the things I normally did in the seconds before the show started, I was thinking about how weird it was that I was doing this.

Me? Belinda Kurczeski from the Valley? What was I doing here?

I felt an odd and slightly unnerving disconnect between what I was doing and ... and me ... whoever that was.

Who are you, Belinda Carlisle? Who are you???

"Kissing A Fool": George Unleashes His Inner Rat Pack

From Track One, Side One all the way up through "Monkey," one could not have exactly accused Faith of being an album lacking in top-tier material. Four #1 singles, a #2 single, some solid album cuts ("Hand to Mouth," "Hard Day") ... hell, I wouldn't have blamed Georgios if he'd just shaved that stubble, hung up the ol' leather jacket, and called it a day.

But no.

The man wasn't satisfied. He still needed to throw one more killer song onto his album - a song performed in the kind of style that no one in their right mind would have ever thought he would have been capable of mastering. Not just a ballad. Not just an adult contemporary ballad.

A standard.

Strap on that cummerbund, slip that valet a $100 bill, and check your coat at the door, because with "Kissing a Fool," you and George are about to spend an elegant evening uptown. Say hello to Georgios Connick, Jr.

As if Faith hadn't already been enough of a mega-blockbuster, career-redefining album, he slips in a little "Kissing a Fool" at the end and makes it even mega-er, even more re-defining-ing. "Kissing a Fool" was George's way of saying, "I can even do this, y'all." Here's my main thought: most of the material on Faith, while excellent, certainly sounds ... of its time. Let's face it: it's an album smothered in synth sauce. Most of it has managed, in my opinion, to also transcend its time, due to the passion and playfulness in his singing, the inherent melodic sturdiness of his songwriting, and the craft in the production.

But "Kissing a Fool" is another beast entirely. It's the Dorian Gray of George Michael songs. It still sparkles like the top of the Chrysler Building on a breezy autumn morning. Granted, it doesn't sound like a recording from the '50s, which I imagine was the primary vibe George was aiming for. But it sure doesn't sound like a recording from the '80s either. This could have been recorded for a Tony Bennett comeback album circa 1993, I'm thinking. It could have been recorded for one of those Rod Stewart Great American Songbook albums from the '00s. It could have been recorded bloody yesterday. In other words, he didn't just write a standard. He made it sound like a standard. For instance, when the horns come in toward the end, they don't sound like, say, "I Want Your Sex, Part II: Brass In Love" horns. They sound like snappy, full-bodied, swingin' supper club horns. The piano rings and shimmers around the stereo spectrum like the refracted light emanating from the candles presumably resting on top of it. And those vocals! The vibe on this track is so smoky, I feel like I'm getting cancer just listening to it.



"Kissing a Fool" was Faith's coup de grace. As the last jazzy notes of an electric guitar bring the track to close, one can almost feel the final remnants of Wham! firmly and irrevocably dissipating into the night air like the helpless victim of an Evanesco spell. How the single got to #5 in the U.S. I'm not entirely sure; who hadn't already bought the whole album at that point? Maybe they really needed the instrumental version on the B-side? And until our friends at Vevo get around to acquiring the rights to the video, I'll have to embed this version that features subtitles in Spanish. My favorite lyric in "Kissing a Fool" - excuse me, "Besando a un Loco" - has always been "La gente nunca puedes cambiar como piensan." Don't tell me I'm the only one. Also, notice how George uses his guitar as a literal prop. He doesn't even bother to pretend-strum until the end of the bridge. Anyone "fooled" by that faux-playing only deserves to be "kissed" by death. From Professor Higglediggle:

Michael iterates the codification of Shakespeare on the concluding track to Faith, twisting the accumulated symbolic capital of the Bard's oeuvre into the seemingly anodyne lounge jazz ballad "Kissing a Fool," a maladroit melange of interpretations of various "Fool" characters found in Shakespeare's canonical works. The opening couplet, "You are far/When I could have been your star" (re)positions Feste's promise in Twelfth Night, "What is love? 'Tis not hereafter/Present mirth hath present laughter" as an astrological farce, while the following lines, "You listened to people/Who scared you to death/And from my heart" re-contextualize the mocking plea of Falstaff, "Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that/taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for/tap, and so part fair" in Act II, Scene I of Henry IV, Part II. However, Michael appears to misunderstand, if nobly, the Fool's wry observation "The man that makes his toe/What he his heart should make/Shall of a corn cry woe/And turn his sleep to wake" in King Lear when he croons, "Strange that I was wrong enough/To think you'd love me too," although this might arguably be intended as a nod to Costard in Love's Labours Lost, rendering it less malapropos. Avoiding a  reference to the Fool's smooch-laden banter in Twelfth Night ("What's to come is still unsure/In delay there lies no plenty/Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty/Youth's a stuff will not endure") may have either been a noble gesture of restraint on the singer's part, or an exclusion properly foolish.

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.

"Land of Confusion": Too Many Puppets, Too Many Caricatures, Not Much Horse Tranquilizer To Go Round

Perspective. Why can't we just pop into the local Trader Joe's, grab a big fat jar of perspective off the shelf, and just stick it in our cart next to the jalapeno limeade? I mean, if people don't have it, why don't they just go out and get it? Perspective, to the modern day internet commentator, is like sex to the average eighteen-year-old male: everybody likes to pretend they have more of it than they really do.

Because really now. Have you been reading too many comments on too many websites claiming that these are "dark times"? That "everything's falling apart and there's no end in sight"? That those who came before us could not have possibly comprehended the dim sense of dread that seems to engulf our global reality? Then do I have an '80s song for you:

I must've dreamed a thousand dreams
Been haunted by a million screams
But I can hear the marching feet
They're moving into the street

Now did you read the news today?
They say the danger's gone away
But I can see the fire's still alight
Burning into the night

Too many men
Too many people
Making too many problems
And not much love to go round
Can't you see
This is a land of confusion

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we're given
Use them and let's start trying
To make it a place worth living in

Whoa. Clearly we who are stuck in 2019 ... are totally flattering ourselves! After listening to Genesis's "Land of Confusion," I have come to the realization that concern for the fate of humanity is, contrary to what every third New York Times article is telling me, nothing new at all. Don't the sage words of one Mike Rutherford (who I'm told wrote the lyrics, not Phil or Tony) bear more than a passing resemblance to all the verbiage spewed forth hourly by so many vapid talking heads and arrogant opinion columnists of today? And yet ... this is merely a post-No Jacket Required, post-"jump the shark" Genesis single. To paraphrase Paul Simon: "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, and on the lyric sheets of Invisible Touch."

"Too many men/Too many people/Making too many problems/And not much love to go round." That really hits me right here [pointing to heart, not to groin]. And yet, and yet ... "Land of Confusion" is ... like ... old and stuff! Let this be a lessen to all you budding songwriters out there who wish to write a "topical" song that will still "resonate" years later: keep it vague. Then again, Neil Young got extremely specific on "Ohio," which also still resonates, so there goes that theory. I think the moral of the story is that either life isn't as shitty right now as we think it is, or that life back in 1986 was shittier than we thought it was. I find this verse quite effective as well:

Superman, where are you now?
When everything's gone wrong somehow
The men of steel, men of power
Are losing control by the hour

Get a load of that wordplay - "men of steel" referring not only to Superman, but also to men of "industry," men of corporate greed and lust, if you will. And just where was Superman? Sitting on the couch in the Fortress of Solitude, playing Nintendo and smoking pot with Lois Lane all day? Get your ass in gear, buddy. Then comes the last verse:

I won't be coming home tonight
My generation will put it right
We're not just making promises
That we know we'll never keep

Yeahhhhh. So. About those promises. Obviously the Baby Boomer generation has "put it right" (cough). To be fair, society's long, slow slide toward irreversible decline hasn't exactly been Mike Rutherford's fault. Let me put it this way: if the world is screwed up beyond belief (which, given our lack of perspective, it might not be), I doubt we can blame this state of affairs on a bunch of British rock stars who failed to fulfill the promises they made in their 30-year-old lyrics.

I'll say one thing: they certainly didn't fail due to lack of catchiness. Anyone who hears this song will forever dream a thousand hooks and be haunted by a million synth riffs. I like how the first verse is goosed along by a snapping "hand clap" effect, the second verse is goosed along by some kind of "backwards sucking" effect, and the third verse is goosed along by a demonic hybrid of the two. By the time the insistently rhythmic keyboard, straight out of a Beach Boys song from Mike Love's nightmares, kicks in on the chorus, I imagine any remaining confusion surrounding the song's eventual commercial success in this land should have been cleared up once and for all (it peaked at #4).



So, the video. Genesis could have easily attempted to convey the gravity of the song's themes with a correspondingly dour and preachy video. That is ... um ... not what they did.

There are always certain slices of British pop culture that never quite find their way over to the States. Coronation Street. Boyzone. Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Patridge. The television show Spitting Image would have fit happily into this tradition if it hadn't been for one small thing: the video for Genesis's "Land of Confusion."

According to Wikipedia, Spitting Image

featured puppet caricatures of celebrities prominent during the 1980s and 1990s, including British Prime Ministers Margaret Thatcher and John Major and other politicians, US president Ronald Reagan, and the British Royal Family; the series was the first to caricature Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother (as an elderly gin-drinker with a Beryl Reid voice).

So British. So, so British.

Inevitably, at one point the program featured a caricature of Phil Collins. Now, Phil could have seen this caricature and taken great umbrage, but give the man credit where credit is due, because instead, a little light bulb went on over his head.

This video. Where do I even start with this video? At the very least I will provide a link to the Wikipedia article, which (more or less) clarifies exactly who is who. For instance: I thought the Madonna puppet was Dolly Parton and that the Pope John Paul II puppet was ... Stevie Wonder? Notice how Tony Banks's puppet resembles Mick Jagger - which is funny because later in the video there is also a puppet of ... Mick Jagger. Also, initially I assumed that the Reagan puppet was drowning in water, but actually, he's drowning in a massive pool of his own sweat. They do say it's a stressful job.

The director seemed to be aware that the best gag in the video, like the shark in Jaws, needed to stay off-screen just long enough for its eventual appearance to have the necessarily powerful effect. Notice that the puppet of Phil doesn't appear until the second verse, at least 45 seconds in, and OH GOD, OH GOD, SOMEBODY KILL IT, PLEASE, JUST KILL IT!!! I mean Jesus Christ, would you look at that thing? It's like some hairy, wrinkly troll-beast. It could have starred in a Child's Play movie. One is tempted to call the rendering "unflattering," but according to Phil, the truth is even more disturbing. From In The Air Tonight:

How bad had things had gotten by 1986? Let me tell you how bad. You know those puppets in the video for "Land of Confusion"? How everyone said they looked like such a weird, creepy likeness of me and the other guys? Well, it's time I finally come clean about something. That puppet of me in the video ... wasn't actually a puppet.

That was me.

Oh, Tony and Mike were puppets, all right. Don't mean to freak you out too much. But that hideous "Phil Collins puppet"? That was just what my face genuinely looked like at the time. If that isn't the best PSA for horse tranquilizer addiction you'll ever see in your life, I don't know what would be. Honestly, I thought I looked OK. Hey, when that's what you see in the mirror every day, you kinda get used to it. Tony told me the next day that certain members of the video crew were quietly crying on the set. In the end, we lied, told everyone I was a puppet like the others.

I've never quite felt right about it. My fans deserve to know the truth - the whole, bitter, wrinkled, flabby truth.

"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.