After 17 years of professional music-reviewing, Noel Murray is taking time off from all new music, and is revisiting his record collection in alphabetical order, to take stock of what he's amassed, and consider what he still needs.
"Do It All Night" by Prince
Between the ages of 13 and 17, I found something like a dozen or so pornographic magazines just lying on the ground. Some were out in the woods behind our subdivision, some were sitting behind a nearby convenience store, and some were just haphazardly tossed along the side of the road. I'm pretty sure I know who left them there: kids like me, who either shoplifted the magazines or liberated them from their fathers' stashes, and then in a fit of guilt and paranoia tried to ditch them before their mothers could find out. Whatever the reason, for my pubescent self—living in a home without cable, and without a "stash" of any kind—these magazines were like an unexpected, unexplained gift. Whether you want to learn more about the intricacies of human reproduction or you just want to look at naked people, there's nothing like a discarded issue of Hustler to bring you up to speed.
Or you could just listen to Prince.
In the '80s, having ready access to Prince albums was as much of an education about sex as any dirty magazine—and about as accurate, from a clinical standpoint. But unless you belonged to one of those families where the parents sat you down and explained the facts of life (complete with illustrations from medical textbooks), sex education in my day and in my community was generally cobbled together from smutty jokes, late-night TV, R-rated movies, Judy Blume books and schoolyard chatter. In other words: you learned from whatever you could find lying on the side of the road.
Prince's sex songs were about at the level of dirty jokes, and some of his raunchier lyrics—like "You're such a hunk / So full of spunk," from Dirty Mind's "Head"—sounded like the porn-stoked fantasies of a teenage virgin. And yet, listening to Dirty Mind, or the more titillating tracks off 1999 and Purple Rain, made me feel like a gentleman of the world, sophisticated enough to appreciate the nuances and meaning of a line like, "I sincerely want to fuck the taste out of your mouth." Discovering Prince was like stumbling across a warp zone in a videogame, and jumping ahead from "adolescent" to "adult."
Sex and popular music have always been closely allied, as far back as the bawdy pub songs that world travelers made up to boast about their (likely fictional) sexual adventures. The term "rock 'n' roll" itself is a euphemism for sex, and a lot of the roadhouse blues and boogie songs that developed into rock are full of double-entrendres about "backdoors," "honeypots," "lemons" and "snakes." Even the sound of certain rock, R&B and pop songs is sexy, between the repetitive rhythms and the climactic eruptions of guitar. Still, when Prince stopped singing coy pop ditties like "I Wanna Be Your Lover" and started singing songs like "Head," the change was refreshing. After a decade of "Afternoon Delight," a pop star was finally playing it blunt. It was like that moment in the old Saturday Night Live sketch "Tales Of Ribaldry" when the characters drop the innuendo and just say what they really mean.
Of course, some people like innuendo; some people find it sexier than directness. For one thing, there are many more creative ways to be suggestive than there are to say, "Let's do it." Also, entering the realm of sexually active adulthood can feel like becoming a member of a special club—not unlike that episode of Family Ties where Alex loses his virginity then spends the next morning lounging around his house in a smoking jacket. When people who aren't in the club get to share the lingo and learn the secret handshake, it makes the club a little less special. Plus, it's all too easy for frankness to shade into something more repellant. Though pornography is often unfairly demonized, the people who like to pretend that it is—or should be—mainstream entertainment are equally off-base. The world of sexually explicit material doesn't have that many boundaries; walk in looking for some pictures of nice-looking people getting it on, and soon people are trying to sell you pictures where they humiliate each other, or simulate illegal acts. It can get pretty depressing.
On the other hand, it would be a mistake to discount the liberating effect that sexually explicit material can have on those who need it, whether because they were raised in a strict religious home, or they're gay, or they don't have any friends they feel comfortable sharing dirty jokes with. Knowing that other people are out there thinking about sex, talking about sex, having sex… it can be awfully reassuring. Finding a piece of music or a book or a movie that depicts sexual desire in a straightforward way is like finding money. So it's a tricky balance. It's difficult to write songs that evoke the natural processes of pleasure without stooping to pandering. But sex is such a significant part of what drives us that it can't be totally taboo as a topic for musicians. (Just maybe a little taboo—to preserve the illicit thrill.)
Perhaps inspired by the accidental porn discoveries and Prince-listening of my youth, I have a recurring dream I call "The Secret City Dream," where I find myself walking or driving through a familiar neighborhood, until I turn a corner and find a street or a building that I've never seen before. When I enter, sometimes I find books or albums that have never existed, full of amazing songs and stories that explain the world in a way that's more vivid and satisfying than anything I've ever heard or seen. And sometimes I find a brothel.
I'm not sure which version of the dream I prefer.
"The Human Body" by Pylon
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Pieces Of The Puzzle
Prefab Sprout
Years Of Operation 1982-present (?)
Fits Between Aztec Camera and Todd Rundgren
"Cue Fanfare" by Prefab Sprout
"A Prisoner Of The Past" by Prefab Sprout
Personal Correspondence I tackled Prefab Sprout at reasonable length in a blog post I wrote in honor of the Steve McQueen reissue last year, so I'll refer you all back to that for an explanation on why I so love the Sprout. But a few addenda: Prefab Sprout have recorded seven LPs thus far—none since 2001—and not all of them have gotten their due. There's not a clunker in the bunch, though 2001's The Gunman And Other Stories is relatively weak, and the 1988 mainstream push From Langley Park To Memphis is problematic, despite containing some of the Paddy McAloon's best songs. (I should also confess that I've always found the acclaimed Protest Songs to be a little dull.) The band's two clear masterpieces—and acknowledged as such—are Steve McQueen and Jordan: The Comeback, but the two Prefab Sprout albums I maintain the most personal affection for are Swoon and Andromeda Heights. The former I found in a bargain bin a few months after falling for Steve McQueen (or Two Wheels Good, as it was known here in the states). Swoon sounds a lot like the later Prefab Sprout albums from a compositional perspective, but the sound is much earthier—more like '70s FM than '80s adult contemporary. And because Swoon was relatively unheralded, I felt like I had that record all to myself, left alone to parse its soft white-boy funk and oddball songs about chess grandmasters. (Not that I shared the other Prefab Sprout records with many folks either; aside from my wife, I've never been able to convince any of my friends of McAloon's majesty.) As for Andromeda Heights, it's never been released in the U.S., so I bought an import copy in the early days of Internet commerce, and again felt like I had my hands on an album that was my little secret. Andromeda Heights is broader than the other Prefab Sprout records, and more directly beholden to Broadway and adult-pop sentimentality, but its loosely connected set of songs about "stars"—both celestial and showbiz—partly excuses the grand, sparkly gestures. It also helps that those songs are drop-dead gorgeous.
Enduring presence? McAloon is an eccentric dude who's reportedly started and scrapped dozens of Prefab Sprout records, and he's had some health issues in recent years too, so no one really knows if we'll ever hear him or Prefab Sprout again. But honestly, I feel like the old records are so ripe for rediscovery that they're practically new. They're just sitting there, waiting for music buffs who've recently come to grips with the fact that that soft rock isn't inherently lame. Open up. Prefab Sprout will guide you into the light.
The Pretenders
Years Of Operation 1978-present
Fits Between The Kinks and Patti Smith
"Up The Neck" by The Pretenders
Personal Correspondence Speaking of frank sexuality in pop music… A lot of what was bracing about Chrissie Hynde when The Pretenders' first album came out was how predatory she seemed, with her sassily seductive lyrics like, "I shot my mouth off and you showed me what that hole was for." But unlike some other artists who've turned sex-talk into shtick, Hynde moved on to sing about motherhood, fear, regret, insecurity—hell, she even wrote a song about doing her laundry. She's never been what you'd call a Boy Toy. A night of passion with Hynde would probably leave you with scratches on your back and a sink full of dishes that she'd expect you to wash before you leave. (If she likes you, she might dry.) That complicated, fully rendered personality comes through in The Pretenders' miraculous run of singles and albums between 1979 and 1984. The punky aggression of songs like "Precious," "Message Of Love" and "Middle Of The Road" is balanced by the sweet pop of "Brass In Pocket" and "2000 Miles." And in between lie off-kilter midtempo rockers like "Up The Neck," "Talk Of The Town," "Back On The Chain Gang" and "Show Me," none of which sound like anything else that was on the charts at the time, though they're definitely catchy and affecting. The best Pretenders songs are almost impossible to deconstruct; they work because of the way Hynde alternately wails and spits, and because of that coursing guitar and limber percussion. They all sound like they were born with bangs, baggy clothes and bad attitudes.
Enduring presence? It was almost a running joke for a while how each new Pretenders album was hailed as a return to form by the same critics who claimed that the album before it was a return to form. In actuality, after Learning To Crawl, Hynde became more of a singles artist, always capable of adding one or two more timeless songs to her repertoire every couple of years, but not capable of cobbling together enough for a satisfying LP. "My Baby," "Don't Get Me Wrong," "Night In My Veins," "Human"…these are all terrific. The albums they come from? Eh. It's been a few years since the last Pretenders album though, and Hynde seems to have settled into a position as Rocker Emeritus, feted by VH1 specials and the like. Good for her; she's earned it. But I'd still like to see her pull off one of those late-career comebacks that so many grizzled pop stars have managed over the past 10 years. Perhaps she should see if Rick Rubin is free.
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