In America, the name Kate Bush is synonymous with her 1985 single “Running Up That Hill,” the lead-off track from her fifth studio album, Hounds of Love. While this song was a moderate hit in the U.S. four decades ago—reaching No. 30 on the Billboard Hot 100 in November of that year1—it wasn’t considered an enduring work.

It was merely an aside, underscoring how this Brit’s illustrious career in her native country couldn’t be replicated abroad. That is, until 37 years later—in 2022. “Running Up That Hill” reentered the spotlight that summer—and the Billboard singles chart, too—peaking at No. 3 the week of July 30th.2

The song found new life through its prominent role in the fourth season of the hit Netflix series Stranger Things, introducing Bush—and the rest of her musical catalogue—to an entirely new generation of fans.

But this article isn’t examining Bush’s resurgence—or the song or album that surrounds it, for that matter. While Hounds of Love is almost universally considered her crowning achievement, it wasn’t the pop starlet’s first brush with stardom—not by a long shot.

Wuthering Heights

Kate Bush was discovered by none other than David Gilmour of Pink Floyd. After hearing her demos—some written when she was as young as 13—he became her greatest champion, and at his urging, she was signed to EMI Records in 1975.

In January 1978, she released her first single from her debut album, The Kick Inside. The song was called “Wuthering Heights,” which Bush had written the year before—at the age of 18—in a single evening.

It’s an incredibly bewildering composition, with unusual harmonic progressions, irregular phrase lengths, and vocals—featuring lyrics inspired by the 19th-century novel of the same name—sung entirely in falsetto. Yet its eccentricities became its strengths, as the song became a hit far beyond Bush’s wildest dreams.

“Wuthering Heights” reached No. 1 on the U.K. charts in early March, where it stayed for four weeks.3 With this, Bush made history as the first female artist to top the British charts with an entirely self-written song.4 She became a cultural phenomenon in her home country—and easily the most photographed woman of the year.5

A Hidden Gem

Unfortunately—while incredibly captivating and inspiring—this article isn’t about Bush’s debut either. Much has been written about this legendary female artist’s colossally unforeseen rise—and her recent, equally surprising peak almost five decades later.

However, her work in the in-between years of 1979 to 1984 is less explored—but equally deserving of attention. So today, we’ll be revisiting Bush’s fourth studio album—the predecessor to Hounds of Love, neatly sandwiched between her two most notable years: 1982’s The Dreaming.

The In-between Years

Lionheart

Kate Bush’s debut studio album, The Kick Inside, went to No. 3—and ended up spending an astounding 71 weeks on the U.K. charts.

But the newly crowned popstar refused to rest on her laurels—she returned to the recording studio that summer, and her follow-up album, Lionheart, was released that November.

This record wasn’t as well received as its predecessor and didn’t have a hit single like “Wuthering Heights”—though it still reached No. 6.6

It should be said, the Bush herself wasn’t satisfied with the finished product, feeling it rushed by her label, EMI, in an effort to capitalize on her rapid rise to stardom.

Never for Ever

In September 1980, her third studio album, Never for Ever, was released. In many ways, it was the true successor to The Kick Inside, complete with its own standout track: “Babooshka”—although “Army Dreamers” is my personal favorite.

The record snagged the top spot on the U.K. charts for the week of September 20th—becoming the first of Bush’s two No. 1 studio albums.7

RateYourMusic

For a critical assessment of these early years—turning once again to RateYourMusic, the premier source for community-driven album ratings—we find the following scores for her albums:

Discounting the hurried Lionheart, Bush’s early discography follows an impressively solid upward trajectory—culminating in 1985.

The Kick Inside and Never for Ever rank as the 13th and 5th best records of 1978 and 1980, respectively. Her follow-up—and today’s subject—The Dreaming, was the 3rd best of 1982. And Bush’s magnum opus, Hounds of Love, claimed the top album of its release year: 1985.

Sorting by Songs

Another nifty feature of this site is its ability to display ratings and rankings for individual songs. For Bush, two tracks—the aforementioned “Running Up That Hill” and “Wuthering Heights” occupy her top spots—by a vast margin, too.

In fact, these two songs are the 29th and 96th highest rated tracks on the entire site— out of a database of 25,442,159 songs at the time of writing.

For a band to have even one song grace the coveted top 100 list is an honor—let alone two, and by a solo artist, no less.

Among Bush’s highest-rated songs, tracks from her album The Dreaming are unique: though none rank among her top five, all ten are clustered remarkably close together.

Three appear in her top ten, seven in her top twenty-five, and all ten within her top thirty-three.

So, even without an exceptionally enduring entry—like “Running Up That Hill,” “Wuthering Heights,” or “Babooshka”—The Dreaming earns the title of Bush’s most consistently high-quality album: its weakest track still outranks three from Hounds of Love.

Production

While Bush shared production duties with Jon Kelly on Never for Ever, on The Dreaming she elected to produce the record entirely on her own. As a direct result, its composition was destined to be even more disparate than her already eccentric discography.

At the album’s helm was the Fairlight CMI—a digital synth, sampler, and audio workstation, essentially a Logic Pro or GarageBand for the early ‘80s. This versatile little machine would later see its most famous use as the driver force behind “Running Up That Hill.”

On The Dreaming, Bush used it to fill in the production gaps—chiefly enabling the looped and reversed vocals that characterize the record, as well as its occasional dream-like atmosphere.

An Odd Analysis

The Dreaming, more so than any of Kate Bush’s other work, showcases the full versatility of her artistry.

Usually, at this point in an album retrospective, I would assess each track individually. Yet The Dreaming is just so in effable, so unqualifiable, that this task is nearly impossible. Instead, I will discuss this album’s quirks on a general level. There are many common threads—which we’ll explore in detail.

With every track on the album, so much happens in such a short span. In this vein, it resembles the heavily layered, dream-like textures of The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour.

Vocal loop upon vocal loop is hurled at the listener—a barrage of samples spoofing gangster noir films on “There Goes a Tenner,” freakish animal noises on the closer “Get Out of My House,” and even a snippet of Stravinsky’s Firebird on “The Dreaming.”8

Its production is over the top—dramatic to no end—yet simultaneously, it draws inspiration from the austere traditions of English, Celtic, and Aboriginal folk music.

On the record’s title track, Bush explores the latter of these cultures. Driven mostly by didgeridoo—her piano finally gets a break—“The Dreaming” a feast of looped and reversed sounds that pop out from a ghostly void. Bush’s fake Aussie accent grow increasingly tiring—but still, points for originality.

As for drama, “There Goes a Tenner” has all the makings of a Broadway—or more aptly, West End—play: a heist gone wrong, complete with Bush’s finest Michael Caine-style Cockney accent.

Then, all of a sudden, it turns ethereal—like a day dream, courtesy of a vapory synth. Neil Tennant agreed: “Very weird… Obviously she’s trying to become less accessible. Even so this has a haunting atmosphere.”9 I suppose that’s a compliment…

The music video for “There Goes a Tenner” is a treat—Bush looks star so wide-eyed and cheery, you’d almost think she wrote the song just to film it.

The Little Quirks

Each song on The Dreaming has a calling card—an odd sample of Bush’s falsetto, looped throughout. They range from the scream of “And love life!” on “Pull Out the Pin” to the cryptic “But now I've started learning how”—apparently—on “Leave It Open.”

In all honesty, I had to look up what most of these lyrics were. To me—and I assume most listeners—they’re just curious noises that heighten these already incredible songs.

However, the clear winner for memorability is “Suspended in Gaffa,” with its pleading refrain: “I want it all.” Arguably the best track on the record, it’s a tapestry of bygone instruments—mandolin, strings, and antique-sounding Synclavier.

I imagine this song as a young girl’s dream, unfolding in a fantasy world as she roams the English countryside—her “mindy moors.”

But really, it’s about “being given a glimpse of God”10 and the frustration of never being able to reach it again without a lot of hard work—real heady stuff.

The “gaffa” in “Suspended in Gaffa” refers to the tape used by musicians. Our protagonist is stuck—suspended in this tape—between her starting place and her goal of reaching God.

Genre-blurring

If I were to attempt to categorize this type of music—having no true companion among other musicians—I’d call it theatrical maximalism. But really, that label applies more to its spirit than its instrumentation.

But for many, the term baroque pop, referencing Bush’s integration of orchestral instruments, would also suffice.

It’s all really out there—to say the least—and Bush truly pushes the boundaries of what can be considered “pop music,” as just about everything about these ten songs is about as far from the mainstream as anything I’ve written about on this Substack.

So really, it’s extremely puzzling why Kate Bush was blessed with the gift of instant—and very prolonged—mainstream success.

A Record for the Masses

The Dreaming was an immediate, modest hit in the U.K., released on September 13th, 1982, and entering the charts at No. 3 the week of September 25th—one and three spots above Yazoo’s Upstairs at Eric’s and Simple Minds’ New Gold Dream (81–82–83–84), respectively.11

As for singles, the record boasted a whopping five: “Sat in Your Lap,” “The Dreaming,” “There Goes a Tenner,” “Suspended in Gaffa,” and “Night of the Swallow,” which was released a full year after the others—and only in Ireland.12

The lead-off track, “Sat In Your Lap,” performed far and away the best—reaching No. 1113—while “The Dreaming” reached only No. 48,14 and “There Goes a Tenner,” No. 93.15 The other two singles didn’t chart at all.

Curiously, The Dreaming’s success seems to owe itself to a gestalt mindset on the part of the British listener—the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. There was no smash hit or standout track like her past works—just ten excellent, low-key songs.

There’s no need to mention its performance in America either, as it was basically nonexistence—the record peaked at No. 157 on the Billboard 200.16

Bush would have to wait another three years to finally see some well-deserved success on the other side of the Atlantic.

Stage-shy

Bush didn’t tour at all to support her album. In fact, quite shockingly, she has only gone on tour once in her entire career: The Tour of Life, in the spring of 1979—which lasted just 28 shows over six weeks.17

This is an utter rarity for a musician—especially a “pop” star who has enjoyed such intense and prolonged success for almost half a century.

However, the complexity of her compositions and her propensity for theatrics make performing live an incredibly tall task. Just look at one of her performances of “Wuthering Heights” from that fabled tour—how tiring and awkward must that have been.

So, it’s rather easy to excuse Bush for not wanting to go through that again.

A Final Word

Almost 43 years later, The Dreaming sounds just as otherworldly as it did the day it was released—without parallel.

It remains, perhaps, the best-kept secret of an artist long accustomed to the spotlight—one who dared to push the boundaries of what pop music is, and what it could become.

If there’s one takeaway from this record, it’s first that the human voice is the most powerful instrument, and second, that a return to an old sound—a really old sound—can be just as novel and disruptive.

Baroque has never felt so cutting-edge.

Music has the incredible power—more so than perhaps any other facet of life—to attach itself to a particular time, place, emotion, or person, without any conscious thought or predetermination. It’s an extraordinary phenomenon: one that allows the visceral transfer of experience from one person to another.

Those who create music often embed their own lives—circumstances, experiences, feelings, and beliefs—into their work. It retains a distinct, personal meaning for them, perhaps one they hope to evoke in others. Yet so often, it’s co-opted—millions of times over—by the listeners who reshape it to fit entirely different meanings, molded to their own lives.

This is an article about introspection and music, which—at its purest, I believe—serves as a metacognitive exercise for its creator. Of all the musical works that I’ve experienced, one stands above the rest in this regard: Soul Mining, a 1983 post-punk record by English band The The.

One Man Band

A self-examining creative work is something of an autobiography—one of a person’s psyche rather than their experiences. Music rarely achieves this quality, in great part because bands—as opposed to solo artists—consist of multiple competitive, often rivaling psyches.

I called The The a band—which is technically correct—but like Nine Inch Nails or Tame Impala, it’s the creative vision of a single person: Matt Johnson.

The The’s brainchild was born in London in 1961 and came of age in the late ‘70s—an era when few opted to pursue music entirely on their own. Among the rare exceptions were Gary Numan, Thomas Dolby, and Howard Jones—though their work leaned more toward homogenized synth creations.

“An Emotional Hot House”

However—Johnson didn’t get his complete start unaided. He grew up playing music with friends, performing in bands from the age of eleven. But as he left school, the young adult went through a reclusive period, what he described as “an emotional hot house experience.”1

Johnson spent many months indoors, in a room piled high with books, music, and—most crucially—tape recorders. When he did venture outside, it would be for lengthy, solitary walks, allowing him plenty of time to think, unperturbed.

“That period, really, really changed me,” says Johnson. “I started being able to see things I hadn’t previously been able to see and hearing things I previously hadn’t been able to hear. I started sensing things that I hadn’t realised were there before. And this tremendous infusion of energy had to find an outlet somewhere.”

This was the genesis of an illustrious musical career.

Musique Concrète

Already a seasoned musician, Johnson—armed with his family’s reel-to-reel tape recorder, and later an Akai—poured his spirit into making music. But early on, these were really just experiments with sound. Through the creation of tape loops, he discovered he could make intricately layered music that had previously only been possible with a band.

This process was heavily inspired by musique concrète, a mid-20th century music genre that “involves recording, manipulating, and assembling environmental sounds—both natural and synthetic—into compositions that are played through speakers rather than traditional instruments.”2

Essentially, Johnson would record small fragments of instruments or found sounds onto cassette tapes, then slice and reassemble them to create a short strip of tape that looped indefinitely (see above). These loops could then be combined on a multitrack reel-to-reel recorder—a precise, tedious process.

God only knows what this imaginative kid could’ve done if GarageBand had existed in 1979…

Early Creations

With his do-it-yourself approach and propensity for lonesome freewheeling, Johnson created several full-length albums—the first of which, See Without Being Seen (1979), when he was just 16 years old.

This album is rough, to say the least—recorded in the basement of his parent’s pub.3 But despite of the low-quality production, its tracks were on the cutting age for the late ‘70s: moody post-punk creations echoing the band at the genre’s forefront—Joy Division.

Now, for an group of established twenty-something-year-olds, See Without Being Seen wouldn’t have been looked on too favorably. But for the 16-year-old Johnson—whose first foray into recorded music proved a thoughtful, fiercely original record—an exception can be made.

Unfortunately, the teenager never officially released the record, though he did sell a limited number of cassette copies at his early gigs. The master tape would be lost for many decades, until it was found, restored, and formally released in 2019.

It was around this time that—perhaps feeling slightly bored of working all by himself—Johnson placed an advert in NME, “looking for likeminded fans of the Velvet Unground, the Residents, and Throbbing Gristle to form a band with him.”4 This would mark the formal birth of The The.

The The & Burning Blue Soul

The The’s first formal lineup consisted of Johnson on vocals, electric piano, guitar, and tapes, and Keith Laws—who had responded to Johnson’s ad—on synthesizer and tapes.

Laws was the one to come up with the name “The The,” which Johnson agreed to specifically to confuse people with its genericness. Try searching “The The the band” on YouTube and you’ll understand exactly what I mean.

The duo quickly partnered with the renowned indie label 4AD and recorded their first release: a two-song single featuring “Controversial Subject” and “Black and White,” released in August 1980. It failed to chart.

Laws left the band soon after and went on to pursue a successful career as a psychologist and later became a professor of neuropsychology.5 This left Matt Johnson, on his own once again, to continue The The as a solo project.

Burning Blue Soul

Johnson, undeterred, continued his partnership with 4AD and released his first true studio album, Burning Blue Soul, in September of 1981—under his own name.

This record has aged remarkably well. It remains highly experimental, yet benefits from its modestly increased recording budget: £1,800. Johnson was living on welfare at the time and had to “beg, steal, or borrow time at the studio”6—a worthy endeavor, indeed.

The sound is strikingly sparse—like it was captured in an grand, echoing cathedral. Johnson’s vocals are isolated, the guitars are heavy with distortion, the bass slick and fluid, and the background brimming with the found sounds of musique concrète.

Lyrically, there are traces of Johnson’s modus operandi: stream-of-consciousness writing drawn from the annals of his mind. Yet on most of Burning Blue Soul’s tracks, the vocals take the backseat—yielding to the dominance of experimental instrumentation and noises.

This album could really warrant an article of its own, and arguably has a sound just as unique as its successor, Soul Mining—though one grittier and more despondent.

It’s certainly a harder to pigeonhole than Johnson’s latter output—melding elements of pop, post-punk, new wave, gothic rock, and even psychedelic. A true oddity lost to time, yet sonically untethered from it.

Burning Blue Soul failed to chart, though it was reissued twice: first in 1983, with an alternate cover, and again in 1993—this time with yet another cover and under the “The The” name (see above).

I like to think of this album as a trial run for Johnson—building the artistic confidence and distinct sound that would fully emerge two years later, on his next project: Soul Mining.

Making A Masterpiece

Between the recording of Burning Blue Soul in early 1981 and Soul Mining in 1983, the music world underwent a major shift: the rise of synthpop.

1983 was the year of Power, Corruption & Lies, after all—a record that saw Joy Division’s successor, New Order, make the leap from post-punk into electronica.

It would be erroneous to claim that Johnson didn’t take notice of these trends. They greatly influenced the production of The The’s debut—and his second—studio album: the guitars were out, and the synthesizers were in.

Case in point: Johnson had originally intended an as-yet-unreleased album, Pornography of Despair, to be his sophomore effort—but he scrapped it in the winter of 1983.

Bootlegs of this record can be found online, including several tracks that eventually made their way onto Soul Mining. And despite the low fidelity of these recordings, it’s an intriguing listen—a punkier version of Soul Mining, before it received a clean coat of synth polish.

The Writing Process

Johnson and The The signed a record deal with CBS, which provided him, for the first time in his adult life, financial security—via an £80,000 advance.7

He traveled to New York to record material for what would become Soul Mining, but after a series of poor, drug-fueled decisions, he returned to London effectively empty-handed.

So, with the record company breathing down his neck, Johnson took to his apartment, lying on the floor for hours on end, where he wrote the record.

It was likely this environment—left entirely alone with his thoughts—that allowed the self-awareness so openly expressed on Soul Mining to percolate.

When it came time for recording, Johnson received help from some of his heavy-hitting musician friends—including Orange Juice’s Zeke Manyika, Squeeze’s Jools Holland, and synth pioneer Thomas Leer.

Johnson, however, wrote the music and lyrics for all of Soul Mining’s seven songs, with the notable exception: a certain iconic piano solo—but we’ll get to that.

The Songs

Since Soul Mining has a mere seven songs—none of which are weak—we’ll discuss each of them in detail.

I’ve Been Waitin’ for Tomorrow (All of My Life)

There’s one word to sum up Soul Mining’s leadoff track: frantic.

Just the opening line—“I'm hiding in the corner / Of an overgrown garden / Covering my body in leaves / And trying not to breathe”—is sarcastically stupid enough to make you question Johnson’s sincerity.

“I’ve Been Waitin’ for Tomorrow” continues like this for about five minutes, with an aggressive drum machine beat and pulsating synthesizer—and plenty of musique concrète found sounds to boot.

I think by about the fourth minute, when Johnson decides to end the track by repeating “My mind has been polluted / And my energy diluted” about a dozen times, he finally convinces me that he’s serious. But it’s all in good fun.

This song’s lyrics read like a bunch of non-sequiturs—intrusive thoughts all themed around how much of a failure your life has been, delivered with impulse. Fun stuff, indeed.

This is the Day

The name of this song sounds awfully familar, doesn’t it?

If the crux of the last track was the realization that you’ve been squandering the precious gift of life, then “This is the Day” is the ultimate creation in this meditation—with a positive spin, too.

So, much can be said about this song: that feathery synth fade-in, accordion hook, and graceful fiddle—and the lyrics.

“This is the Day” is about living in the past—letting your memories rule over and dictate your life.

It’s not meant to depress, like “I’ve Been Waitin’ for Tomorrow,” but really is a call to action: “This is the day / Your life will surely change / This is the day / When things fall into place.”

There are two lyrics that really stand out as profound—communicating an almost universal feeling with such incisive clarity:

“You’ve been reading some old letters / You smile and think how much you’ve changed / All the money in the world / Couldn’t buy back those days”

“You could’ve done anything / If you’d wanted / And all your friends and family / Think that you’re lucky / But the side of you they’ll never see / Is when you’re left alone with the memories / That hold your life together like glue”

It reveals a fundamental truth about nostalgia—its blinding effect—and the slow-fading former glory that quietly steers our worlds.

It’s all phrased in the third person, yet it reads too pointedly to not carry personal truth. This is Johnson’s meditation on his life thus far—the emotional hothouse he once inhabited, and all.

The Sinking Feeling

“The Sinking Feeling” appeared in post-punk demo form on Johnson’s Pornography of Despair. For Soul Mining, the track has been stripped down, opening with a lone pulsing synth and a subdued Johnson narrating his dysfunctional existence.

Eventually, the song kicks into gear, bringing in a full band—with real instruments, I might add—and the refrain: “I'm just a symptom of the moral decay / That's gnawing at the heart of the country.”

Personally, I feel the demo version was stronger, with its heavier, synthesizer-free sound. Nevertheless, “The Sinking Feeling” is a solid—albeit potentially forgettable—track, sandwiched between the album’s two best songs.

Uncertain Smile

This was the song that put Matt Johnson and The The on the map—their first charting single. “Uncertain Smile” was originally conceived as a demo on Pornography of Despair called “Cold Spell Ahead.”

Like “The Sinking Feeling,” it was originally guitar-driven. But while that transformation arguably detracted from the former, it greatly enhanced the latter. “Uncertain Smile” was reshaped around an eclectic mix of instruments: acoustic and electric guitar, synth strings, drum machine, grand piano, and—most unexpectedly—a xylorimba, the xylophone’s extended cousin.

These instruments are gradually layered—one atop the other—until the climax of this nearly seven-minute song, when the grand piano enters for a legendary solo, performed by Jools Holland of Squeeze. It goes from being an austere synthpop tune to a dynamic concerto—the drum machine as its only constant throughout.

Despite being the second longest track on the album, “Uncertain Smile” has the fewest lyrics: just two verses and a twice-repeated chorus. It’s a simple but powerful song: “Uncertain emotions force an uncertain smile.”

Twilight Hour

“Twilight Hour” resembles a polished rendition of one of Johnson’s early tape loop experiments—this time with a budget for violin and cello. It has a prolonged intro: lush in texture, but lacking in excitement, which returns periodically throughout the track.

The song recreates the tension of someone waiting at home for their lover to call—the growing panic as the time ticks by. Johnson delivers his most varied vocal performance here, trading his usual dour tone for a slurred, whiny delivery. It’s a fitting choice for the mood, though certainly not his strongest.

It’s told like a story, but really reads more like the paranoid thoughts of the main characters, jumping to brash conclusions as he waits by the phone: “She can't leave you now - you've given up all your friends / You’re relying on her—for your independence / She can't leave you here—alone & defenseless.”

Johnson’s increasingly ludicrous thoughts against a wall of jolly synthesizers is an odd, but effective juxtaposition. “Twilight Hour” may be one of the—if not the most—forgettable track on Soul Mining. But its quirks help illustrate why Matt Johnson remains a one-in-a-million artist.

Soul Mining

The album’s title track is also its most unassuming. “Soul Mining” is an incredibly reserved piece, with a peaceful, almost meditative atmosphere—enhanced by Johnson’s near-whispered vocals.

Of course, in true The The fashion, the lyrics and the music are at odds with each other. “Something always goes wrong when things are going right... / You've swallowed your pride—to quell the pain inside.”

Eventually, drums and a more powerful, hypnotic synth kicks in, adding a charge but largely preserving the restful atmosphere.

“Soul Mining” isn’t as dramatic as “Twilight Hour”—and that’s a plus, in my opinion. This track is often overlooked for its lack of a hook or gusto, but it’s an engrossing listen, with poignant lyrics, delivered with nonchalant grace.

Giant

The album closer, “Giant,” is a monster of a track—clocking in at nearly ten-minutes. Some versions of Soul Mining—including the U.S. CD release—add a ninth track, “Perfect,” to finish the album. And even though it’s a solid song, it doesn’t do the job nearly as well.

“Giant” charts an unraveling of the self against a worldly beat and fluxing synths, as Johnson opens: “The sun is high and I'm surrounded by sand / For as far as my eyes can see.”

The song continues to layer on new sounds as Johnson grows increasingly frenzied, until he’s repeating, ad nauseam, “How can anyone know me / When I don't even know myself?”

In the final three minutes, Johnson’s refrains give way to African-inspired tribal chanting—lifted by Kate Bush in her 1985 hit “Cloudbusting”—which plays off this extemporary record with an unexpected, yet admittedly uncanny, precision.

While a little self-indulgent, “Giant” captures The The at their most mesmeric.

Reception

Soul Mining was released on October 21st, 1983 to largely positive reviews and modest commercial success. The record peaked at #27 on the U.K. charts, where it remained for five weeks.8

The album’s three strongest tracks—“This is the Day,” “Uncertain Smile,” and “Giant”—were released as singles, all peaking between #65 and #80. Neither the album nor its singles charted in the U.S.

Despite being signed to the major label CBS and producing more radio-friendly material than his debut effort, Burning Blue Soul, Johnson maintained the underground, unacknowledged genius mystique with Soul Mining that defined his early career.

And despite finding far greater chart success with a poppier sound on his subsequent releases, Johnson would never eclipse the creative genius of The The’s first album. In fact, the band’s two most recognizable and beloved songs—“This is the Day” and “Uncertain Smile”—came from Soul Mining, not from his higher-performing records.

Critical Acclaim

Critically, Soul Mining was an immediate triumph in England—and even made ripples across the pond in America. It placed third on Melody Maker’s Best Albums of 1983 list, ahead of heavy-hitters like New Order’s Power, Corruption & Lies, Tears For Fears’ The Hurting, and R.E.M.’s Murmur.9

The magazine’s Steve Sutherland offered an incisive and glowing assessment, writing “There’ll be times when it will sound obscenely close to the bone, as if [Johnson] were invading and defiling your most private thoughts and emotions … In other words, you’ll use Soul Mining as a barometer to your day.”10

In America, while not garnering widespread public attention, Soul Mining received considerable praise from critics—including Rolling Stone, which noted: “What distinguishes Johnson from the rest of the British synth-pop horde is his sense of structure and his unerring ear for sonic definition.”

The review also pointed to a broad weakness of the record: “If there's a problem, it's with Johnson's obsessively self-absorbed lyrics … Youthful angst and anomie are fine in their place, but not all over the place.”11

Relevations

Narcissism—it comes with the territory of introspection, and Soul Mining, more so than any record I can name of the top of my head, presents an artistic product so unabashedly self-obsessed.

One of Soul Mining’s most impressive feats is that in its seven tracks, Johnson only drops the word “love” a singular time—on “I’ve Been Waitin’ for Tomorrow (All of My Life)”: “And the cancer of love has eaten out my heart.”

Of all the universal themes of art, across cultures and ages, love is second to none. Yet it’s admittedly a crutch for artists—a subject matter guaranteed to elicit at least some response from listeners.

Matt Johnson’s deliberate departure from this norm yields both challenge and triumph. When his songs strays from typical form—grounded in events or emotions—and instead become an amalgamation of swirling thoughts and impulses, he achieves an artistic state worthy of a new genre: the “existential blues.”12

The Mask of Pouting

Johnson’s parochialism makes it harder for him to connect with others through his music—or gain their sympathy. There’s something overtly fretful about Soul Mining, as if it’s airing the complaints of a spoiled child.

But really, aren’t we all a little whiny in our minds—quietly fuming over the most trivial disapprovals, even when they never quite reach the surface?

Soul Mining is, after all, a terribly pessimistic album. And though Johnson’s lyrics embody a litany of negative emotions: sorrow, irritation, bitterness, and neuroticism—it feels less like a product of depression than of passion.

What emerges is the human propensity to overreact in the moment—a quickly passing panic, raw and unfiltered. And for this reason, Johnson manages to skirt the tortured genius archetype—unlike Kurt Cobain or Brian Wilson.

A Lasting Obsession

As for his triumphs, Matt Johnson remains on the outside looking in—and Soul Mining is his insular masterpiece. Untethered from people, places, or events that fade with time, its seven tracks feel no more or less relevant today than at their birth over 42 years ago.

Johnson’s songs are remarkably mature for having been written by a 21-year-old. They speak not with youthful bravado, but with the quiet introspection of an aged man reflecting on his life—did he make the most of it?

The The attracts a certain kind of listener: the compulsive thinker. And I don’t mean thinker in the intellectual sense of the word—but in the obsessive one. The kind of person whose mind simply cannot be coaxed into rest, as Johnson demonstrates through his frantic overanalysis of daily existence.

With Soul Mining, there’s a story to piece together—a common thread to follow—in life’s undoing. It’s like scattered shreds of paper—words that Johnson must painstakingly reassemble—that once held his life together… like glue.

Abrasive for abrasive’s sake? As with their neighbors The Replacements, one can’t help but wonder whether Hüsker Dü might have been something more than just a hidden gem of the 1980s alternative scene—perhaps the Midwest’s answer to R.E.M.

Yes, Hüsker Dü: the hardcore band from Minnesota—who put out six studio records, a live album, and an EP between their formation in 1979 and breakup in 1987. How could they possibly be compared to R.E.M., the archetypal American indie band?

Well, it’s all a matter of the music… Abrasiveness killed The Replacements’ career—just not through their music. A perpetual string of drunken shenanigans did The ‘Mats in, even earning them a lifetime ban from SNL (watch it here).

Hüsker Dü took a different route to ensure they’d never see mainstream success: by making their music as unfriendly to listeners as possible.

A Minneapolis Sound

When discussing American cities and their associated music scenes, a few iconic ones stand out—like San Francisco’s psychedelic movement, New York’s punk scene, and Seattle’s grunge proliferation. Another, from two cities not typically viewed as cultural powerhouses, took shape in the early 1980s and helped mold nearly every form of alternative and grunge rock that followed: Minneapolis hardcore.

The word “hardcore” is somewhat charged, conjuring images of rowdy teenage boys—with just a little too much time on their hands—sporting tattoos and mohawks. And while that’s not entirely off the mark, it’s a slightly misleading way to describe the sound that emerged from Minneapolis and St. Paul.

The Minnesotan flavor of hardcore strayed from the fast, aggressive, anarchic sound embraced by bands like Black Flag and Bad Brains—it was more personal and emotional, while retaining that intensity. The Minneapolis sound was something of a reversed Trojan horse: intimidating on the surface, vulnerable at its core.

The two groups that best encapsulated this dichotomy were the aforementioned Hüsker Dü and The Replacements. And while these kindred bands are both incredible and have yet to receive their due for reshaping indie music, this article will focus solely on Hüsker Dü’s contributions to rock history—I’ll get to the ‘Mats eventually, I promise.

Zen Arcade

Hüsker Dü is a lot like the meek, cowardly lion: scary on the surface, soft on the inside. “Obnoxious,” “shrill,” “senseless”—these are words often thrown at their music, especially their early work. In spite of these critiques, their hearts proved strong—and their songwriting, remarkably versatile. This is especially true of their second studio album, widely regarded as their magnum opus: Zen Arcade.

Zen Arcade is a total oddity of a record—at the time of its release, and at any time before or since. First and foremost, it’s incredibly long: a double album clocking in at just over 70 minutes. In that time, listeners are greeted with 23 eclectic tracks whose instrumentation resists classification—it’s a record without a label. Despite this variation, there is continuity across these disparate songs—an elaborate narrative. Zen Arcade is a concept album.

The band suffered from a dynamic that while making violent, abrupt breakup an inevitability, also fueled a storied songwriting rivalry between its two lead singers—one clearly apparent on this record. So, before continuing with our exploration of Zen Arcade, let’s introduce this trio.

The Fastest Band in the World

Hüsker Dü was formed in 1979—not in Minneapolis, but in St. Paul, Minnesota—by guitarist Bob Mould, drummer Grant Hart, and bassist Greg Norton. The three met at a record store—as seems to be a trend with rock bands—and bonded over their similar tastes in music, deciding to form a band.

The band took their name taken from a 1950s memory board game— translating from Norwegian to “do you remember?”—though they swapped the macrons (¯) for heavy metal umlauts (¨).1

In the beginning, the trio mostly stuck to playing cover songs—by punk bands like the Ramones—but quickly tried their hands at writing original material. Now, these originals were songs in their loosest form—more aptly, they were exercises to test the limits of how fast they could possibly play their instruments. And they took these compositions on the road.

Hüsker Dü’s first “album,” Land Speed Record, was recorded at a show at Minneapolis’ 7th Street Entry on August 15th, 1981. It was done on a 300-dollar budget—it sounds like it cost even less—primarily to showcase the songs they’d touring with—and includes about 26-minutes of material.

Even though this record is, quite honestly, a barrage of noise that renders the individual tracks nearly indecipherable, it served a valuable purpose: showing off their intensity. By this point, the band was faster and tighter than almost any in the hardcore scene—or any other, for that matter. They were seasoned musicians and burgeoning songwriters—if only they’d turned down the amps enough to prove it…

Everything Falls Apart

A sizeable shift emerged for Hüsker Dü on their next two releases: 1983’s Everything Falls Apart and the Metal Circus EP. The former—a mini studio album, just 19 minutes long—was largely a continuation of the Minnesota hardcore pioneered on Land Speed Record. However, as it was not recorded live, the production quality is significantly improved, though—as is a trend we’ll soon see—it’s still quite poor for a studio album.

Another trend: the songs are slightly toned down in intensity and more melodic, giving them, at long last, individuality. Bob Mould took the helm as chief songwriter on this record—though he still shared vocal duties with Grant Hart. And although the lyrics remain inarticulate, a more emotionally varied band has materialized—not just the pure, raging energy of Land Speed Record, but something a little more methodical and restrained.

But despite this commendable progress, it’s still more convenient to lump Everything Falls Apart in with Land Speed Record—rounding out their full-hardcore days—than with what would come later that year: Metal Circus.

The Metal Circus EP

Metal Circus is the first Hüsker Dü record that I’ll listen to for fun. Everything that came before is just too loud and distorted—too much a product of its era and scene to translate well into the present day. Of course, it’s probably because I don’t particularly care for hardcore music that Land Speed Record and Everything Falls Apart just didn’t click—and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Metal Circus—released in October 1983—was a turning point in Hüsker Dü’s discography, convincing listeners outside the hardcore scene to finally pay attention to the band. It was their first release where songs exhibit considerable melodic variation—almost in conflict at times. Yet the trademark intensity remains, spearheaded by Mould on tracks like “Real World” and the surprisingly catchy “First of the Last Calls.”

Hart finally emerges as an accomplished songwriter on this EP, contributing two of the seven tracks: “It’s Not Funny Anymore”—before The Smiths, I might add—and his breakthrough: “Diane.” Written about the murder of a West St. Paul waitress by serial killer Joseph Ture Jr., the song is emotionally raw and instrumentally reserved—letting Hart’s anguished voice carry the track. “Diane” is the first classic Dü song, and it proved that a hardcore band didn’t have to be devoid of feelings—other than anger.

For these reasons, Metal Circus was given the R.E.M. treatment: generous college radio airplay—placing Hüsker Dü at the forefront of the medium that birthed the college rock movement. Today, the terms “college rock,” “alternative rock,” and “indie rock” are often used interchangeably.

Though “college rock” as a genre has largely fallen out of fashion, it speaks to where alternative and indie music proliferated: on college radio. Hüsker Dü were now reaching listeners beyond the hardcore sphere—into the flourishing alternative music scene. The stage was now set for what would follow…

And They Did It in One Take

Now, with this background out of the way, Hüsker Dü began work on what would be their second—and really, first full-length—studio album, Zen Arcade, in the summer of 1983. They jammed for hours on end in a vacant St. Paul church, building a repertoire of new song ideas, which they took to the recording studio that October.

An interesting note: for the majority of their career, Hüsker Dü’s label, SST Records, waited upwards of six months between the recording, mixing, and release of the band’s records. So, just as the trio entered the studio to make Zen Arcade, Metal Circus was being released. The positive reception of their more melodic, emotional sound had no impact on the decisions made for Zen Arcade—though it no doubt would have emboldened them further.

Zen Arcade was recorded at Total Access studios in Redondo Beach, California. Remarkably, according to the liner notes, of the album’s 23 tracks, all but the opener—“Something I Learned Today”—and “Newest Industry” were recorded in a single take.2 The entire recording and mixing process took just 85 hours and cost a mere $3,200. Hüsker Dü had their masterpiece finished before year’s end, though it wouldn’t see the light of day for many more months.

Hardcore Darlings

On July 3rd, 1984, Zen Arcade was released with an initial production run of between 3,500 and 5,000 copies, which promptly sold out.3 Unlike other pioneering albums that are often misunderstood in their own time, only to be reexamined years later—à la The Velvet Underground & Nico—Zen Arcade was overwhelmingly well received upon its release by fans and critics alike.

David Fricke of Rolling Stone called the record “probably the closest hardcore will ever get to an opera.”4 And Zen Arcade placed #8 on The Village Voice’s Pazz & Jop poll for 1984—a compilation of music critics’ top ten albums of the year—amusingly enough, behind two other Twin Cities releases: The Replacements’ Let it Be and Prince’s Purple Rain.5

However, Zen Arcade—like any hardcore or hardcore-adjacent record—was born under a bad sign: inaccessibility. General audiences and mainstream radio were unwelcoming to Hüsker Dü, which meant that, even as it found favor in enclaves like college radio, it remained fated for only small-scale success.

So, after the initial pressing of approximately 5,000 copies sold out—and the months-long wait for more to be made, which certainly hurt its momentum and sales—Zen Arcade went on to sell 20,000 units by spring 1985.6 Unimpressive by mainstream rock’s standards, but admirable by indie’s—and undeniably a strong return on a $3,200 investment.

Members at War

A notable change from Hüsker Dü’s earlier work was the introduction of individual songwriter credits on Zen Arcade—at Mould’s request. This marked an early sign of the rivalry taking shape between Grant Hart and Bob Mould: a formidable battle between two accomplished musicians, vocalists, and songwriters.

Glancing at the 23 tracks—each of which we will examine in greater detail shortly—the final tally stands at twelve songs by Mould, five by Hart, and six credited to more than one band member. While this may suggest Mould carried the bulk of the workload on Zen Arcade, it’s important to distinguish quantity from quality.

Grant Hart’s five tracks on Zen Arcade are among the very best on the record. A September 1984 New York Times review of the album—accompanied by a lone photo of Mould—offered this assessment:

“The band's guitarist, Bob Mould, is turning into an exceptionally gifted songwriter; the three most immediately impressive songs on ‘Zen Arcade’ (‘Turn On The News,’ ‘Standing By The Sea,’ and ‘Pink Turns To Blue’) would be superb material on any band's album.”7

It’s worth noting that all three of these tracks were written by Hart—not Mould—making this what must have been an incredibly frustrating read for the unacknowledged songwriter.

Hart and Mould carried their feud across each of Hüsker Dü’s subsequent releases, with Hart eventually earning near-equal writing credits—four to Mould’s five on Candy Apple Grey (1986), and nine to Mould’s ten on their swansong, Warehouse: Songs and Stories (1987). Hart later claimed there was “a ‘dictum’ determined by Mould prohibiting [him] from ever writing more than 50% of the material on any release.”8

Songs and Stories

At this point, we’ll examine the 23 tracks on Zen Arcade in detail and trace the continuity that defines it as a concept album. In all honesty, the story is difficult to discern from the songs themselves, largely because of Mould’s prominently distorted guitar, which often drowns out the vocals on most tracks.

Zen Arcade is hardly consistent in most respects, including the quality of its tracks. They vary from vocal-less interludes less than a minute long to a closer that stretches nearly 14 minutes. For this reason, the analysis devoted to some songs may be significantly longer than to others.

Something I Learned Today

Zen Arcade begins with a bang. If there were ever a perfect fusion of hardcore intensity and pop’s emotional resonance, it might be “Something I Learned Today.” This track captures Mould at his strongest: his painfully strained vocals deliver a burst of rage, his guitar thunders without overpowering the other elements. Norton contributes a memorable bass lick, and Hart, a militaristic beat.

The story opens with the protagonist’s realization of the world’s rules: “Black and white is always gray,” “Yield to the right-of-way,” and “Never look straight in the sun's rays,”—“Someone else's rules, not mine.” It’s not the most obvious interpretation, but the track’s fast pace and Mould’s repeated refrain, “Something I Learned Today,” in the outro set the tone: a youth’s disillusionment with authority—all packed into under two minutes.

Broken Home, Broken Heart

This song’s meaning is more on the nose: the struggle of growing up in a broken home. The protagonist endures his parents constantly fighting, not “know[ing] who’s wrong or right,” and crying himself to sleep every night.

Another Mould track, “Broken Home, Broken Heart” continues the tone set by the previous—this time with an extended guitar solo. You might expect it to end forcefully, with a blast of noise, but instead, it uncharacteristically fades slowly into the void. A good song, but not a great one.

Never Talking to You Again

Hart’s first contribution to the record, “Never Talking To You Again” is the ultimate minimalist track—just 100 seconds long and featuring a single instrument: a folksy acoustic guitar. Not exactly the go-to choice for a hardcore band.

Sandwiched between two of Mould’s zealous offerings, the song’s placement enhances its soberness: our protagonist is severing his ties to his family—or possibly a romantic figure—and making his own way in the world. Regardless, “Never Talking To You Again” is certainly a happy surprise for any first-time listener. Who knew the Hüskers even owned an acoustic instrument?

Chartered Trips

In my opinion, Mould’s best track on Zen Arcade, “Chartered Trips” has an the infectious beat and catchiness of a pop-hit—while retaining the focus and passion that makes Hüsker Dü’s music so special.

Similar in many ways sonically to the album’s first two entries, this track serves as the careful culmination of the first act of the story. The protagonist has finally left his home for good: “said ‘there’s no returning, from this chartered trip away.’”

“Chartered Trips” is one of several songs on the album that make me wonder what a mainstream hit it could’ve have been if the distortion were only turned down—I guess we’ll never know.

Dreams Reoccurring

Four tracks into Zen Arcade, and we’ve already encountered hardcore, folk-rock, and a hardcore-pop hybrid. Now, on the fifth track, we’re introduced to yet another possibly made-up genre: hardcore-psychedelic.

“Dreams Reoccurring” is an instrumental track, so its meaning is more theoretical than most—just an educated guess, really. It features a prominently hypnotic guitar sound, achieved by Mould layering feedback and loops, complemented by Hart’s snare roll.

Though psychedelic in nature, the sound doesn’t suggest someone at peace—more likely, it reflects the agitated, disturbed psyche of our protagonist after he’s run away from home. It’s a brief, intriguing experiment in sound—brief for now.

Indecision Time

One of the few entries on this record I could do without, “Indecision Time” is probably the track most reminiscent of the Land Speed Record days. It has a cool guitar solo toward the end, but otherwise it’s Mould screaming at the top of his lungs for two minutes.

However, though not a pleasant listen, this song does effectively illustrate the uncertainties and insecurities of our protagonist: “Back and forth between the good and the bad / It’s indecision time.”

Hare Krsna

Our second psychedelic track, “Hare Krsna,” is an intriguingly bizarre mashup of Hindu spiritual practices—complete with mantra-like chanting—and a ‘50s Bo Diddley beat reminiscent of the 1965 classic, “I Want Candy.”

Similar to “Dreams Reoccuring,” Mould employs a feedback loop—this time incredibly high-pitched, evoking the violent ringing of bells. The effect is creepy and cult-like, signaling that the protagonist has turned to religious fanaticism as a way to feel accepted in the world.

It may not be the easiest track on the ears, but it’s certainly one of the most imaginative ones.

Beyond the Threshold

“Beyond the Threshold—may not be joyful listening—as is becoming a trend on the record—but it perfectly illustrates the next chapter in the story: the protagonist unraveling as life away from home proves no sanctuary.

Hart’s manic drumming and Mould’s hurried, muttered vocals are a perfect match, paired—of course—with the Dü’s signature heavy, distorted guitar.

Mould goes from whispering, “Greetings from home / I wish you were here / Hear what I say / But you can't hear me at all,” to ending the song by screaming its title repeatedly. Needless to say, it seems like our protagonist is having a tough go of it…

Pride

Musically, “Pride” is really just a continuation of the previous track, “Beyond the Threshold,” though narratively it does serve a purpose—perhaps explaining its inclusion on Zen Arcade.

The protagonist continues his descent into lunacy, but—as I interpret it—refuses to return home or ask his family for help because of his pride, even as he longs to confide in someone. It’s a track we could all probably do without.

I’ll Never Forget You

The last of a string of three very similar songs, “I’ll Never Forget You” is, thankfully, the best of the trio. It kicks off with a rare audible bassline from Norton, then continues at haste with a jumpy guitar riff and Mould repeatedly screaming the song’s title.

While the title may suggest a song about coping with loss, this track instead captures the protagonist severing ties with those he once tried to confide in—people who refused to accept him. In retrospect, Mould’s screams of “I’ll never forget you” sound less like expressions of love, and more like threats.

The Biggest Lie

An exceptionally restrained entry, “The Biggest Lie” is a breath of fresh air after a string of intensely aggressive tracks. It opens with a slow buildup—forty seconds of a two-minute song—leading into Mould’s vocals, which encapsulate the protagonist’s newly bitter worldview: it’s all the biggest lie.

What’s Going On

We’ve reached the halfway point of Zen Arcade—by track count, if not by runtime—and “What’s Going On” marks a turning point of the record.

First off, I have to note that Norton’s opening bassline sounds strikingly similar to the intro of Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979”—an iconic riff from a song released eleven years later. The resemblance is uncanny—though I’ll give Billy Corgan and company the benefit of the doubt.

For the first time in eight tracks, we get a contribution from Hart—his second on the record. “What’s Going On” is yet another example of a song that, in a perfect world, would have been a pop-radio hit. Its lyrics are catchy, its guitar incredibly melodic, and the background piano—banging like something out of a Little Richard tune—is a lovely touch.

After the fury of almost ten Mould tracks, our protagonist finds himself at peace, admitting: “I was talking when I should have been listening / I didn’t hear a word that anyone said.” He’s gained some self awareness, however, he remains confused, even delusional; Hart’s repeated refrain “What’s going on inside my head”—becomes a haunting echo. This is melodic hardcore and Hüsker Dü at their very best.

Masochism World

“Masochism World” is probably the first—and only—hardcore song with a church choir singing backup, but there should be more, because surprisingly, it works. Otherwise, it’s a slightly inhibited track, featuring Hart lead vocals. A fun, creative listen—certainly in the upper half of Zen Arcade tracks.

Here, our protagonist takes a turn for the worse, exploring his masochistic tendencies with conflicting results: “I love it, I hate it, I love it, I hate it too.” He is dangerously unhinged and well along on a path of self- and collateral destruction.

Standing by the Sea

“Standing By The Sea” opens with ambient noise and an ominous bassline from Norton, setting a unique, intriguing tone. Another track written and sung by Hart, it likely earns the distinction of having the fewest guitar parts on the record—and stands as one of the most atmosphere-driven, too. We can only assume Mould was quite bored during this song’s recording.

This track is also pretty self-explanatory: the protagonist stands alone by the ocean, contemplating his circumstances and decisions.

Somewhere

Another bubble-gum pop song disguised as hardcore, “Somewhere” is Hart’s third lead vocal in a row—he undeniably dominates the second half of Zen Arcade. This track is typical of the band’s melodic hardcore, with hints of psychedelia, courtesy of Mould’s layering and feedback.

Our protagonist continues to feel disillusioned: “Searching for the truth but all I ever find is lies.” But somewhere, he imagines finding “happiness instead of pain,” though this statement doesn’t feel especially promising.

One Step at a Time

This forty-second interlude seamlessly fades in from the previous track, “Somewhere,” feeling more like a continuation than a standalone piece. Still, credit where it’s due: “One Step At A Time” is strikingly ethereal, making expressive use of piano and, once again, overturning every preconceived notion about hardcore bands.

“One Step At A Time” serves as a buffer in the protagonist’s story—the calm before the storm, so to speak.

Pink Turns to Blue

A song as good as “Pink Turns to Blue”—far and away the strongest on the record, and one of the greatest ever—is tragic in many ways. The guitar is so distorted and forceful it drowns out Hart’s incredible lyrics. Its harsh production all but guaranteed it would never be a hit, even though everything’s there—sonically and lyrically.

But that’s its genius: it doesn’t need to sound beautiful to be beautiful. Written and sung by Hart, the track tells the story of the protagonist’s girlfriend, who spirals into addiction and dies of an overdose. Hart utters the high-pitched refrain, “I don’t know what to do / Now that pink has turned to blue,” over and over—it stays with you.

Newest Industry

After string of incredible Hart songs, Mould is back in the driver’s seat on “Newest Industry”—an incredibly cynical song with a pertinent political message. It opens with an R.E.M.-esque guitar riff and toes a fine line, balancing passion with restraint—it has just the right amount of each.

This track is lyrically absurd, describing a post-apocalyptic world with the opening line: “We been through mass destruction once but once was not enough,” before going on to talk about annexing Mexico, living in caves, and corporate overlords.

It’s not completely clear how this fits into the story—the protagonist might be delusional again, or perhaps he genuinely believes a world so cruel to him is indeed heading in this direction. Either way, it’s a refreshing track that ushers Mould back into the spotlight.

Monday Will Never Be The Same

Yet another piano-driven instrumental under a minute in length, “Monday Will Never Be The Same” is, in my opinion, the best of the bunch. At this point, though, there’s not much more to say—good work, Hüsker Dü.

Whatever

“Whatever” acts as a resolution to “Broken Home, Broken Heart”—some eighteen tracks ago. Back when the protagonist lived at home, he felt neglected and abused by his parents. Now, after enduring immense pain while living alone in the world, he’s had an epiphany.

He’s realized the plans he made aren’t possible: “He finally gets the nerve one day, now life becomes a test.” Mould repeats “Mom and dad, I’m sorry,” followed by the protagonist’s new mantra: “Whatever you want, whatever you do, wherever you go, whatever you say.”

It’s not a happy resolution, but a resolution nonetheless.

The Tooth Fairy And The Princess

At this point, things get really weird—we’re thrown right back into psychedelic hardcore. Featuring Mould’s feedback loops—which now sound reminiscent of the Beatles’ Revolver or Sgt. Pepper’s—the track feels extremely sparse and ambient, with no drums or bass.

Instead, Mould’s echoing voice repeats the lines: “Don't give up,
don't let go, don't give in, don't let on,” which are subsequently echoed by Hart and Norton. Then, he whispers the key line: “In your bed, late at night, red hot red, don't get up,” followed by a scream and the end of the song.

It was all a dream…

Turn On the News

You might expect the previous track, “Tooth Fairy and the Princess”—which dismantles the carefuly constructed narrative of the past twenty-one songs—to serve as the finale. But no—Hüsker Dü follows that cop-out bombshell with one of the record’s finest: “Turn on The News.”

Hart’s final track begins with the distorted sounds of radio broadcasts, then erupts into a fiery song about media saturation and emotional alienation. Though we’ve stepped outside the protagonist’s story, “Turn on the News” still carries the torch. Mould adds an electrifying guitar solo, and just like that—another phenomenal track.

Reoccurring Dreams

The other instrumental tracks on Zen Arcade are brief—all under one hundred seconds in length. But to close the album—in true Hüsker Dü fashion—we’re greeted by a monstrosity of song: fourteen minutes long.

“Reoccuring Dreams” is essentially an extended version of its sister track, “Dreams Reoccuring,” and to those who choose to listen to it in its entirely—all the power to you. Personally, I like to bow out once this track begins.

A Final Note

We’ve done it—we’ve reached the end of Zen Arcade. As you may have picked up on, it can be an especially daunting listen the first time through, and incredibly hard to vividly capture its singular, enigmatic qualities in writing.

If you’re brave of heart and curious to experience one of the oddest—yet most enduring and influential—albums of its era, bring an open mind and give Zen Arcade a listen.

In case you missed it, I highly recommend reading Part 1, which recaps Depeche Mode’s early career and their groundbreaking 1986 release, Black Celebration. Now, let’s continue…

Black Celebration was Depeche Mode’s creative breakthrough, signaling a stunning maturity in their musicianship and lyrical prowess—one that earned them their highest position on the U.K. album charts up to that point: #4.1 After embarking on the Black Celebration Tour in March 1986—a five-month international tour in support of the album—the band regrouped that winter and began work on what would become their sixth studio album: Music for the Masses. This album would prove to be a second kind of breakthrough for the quartet—their commercial one.

A Band on the Cusp

Prior to the release of their sixth album, Depeche Mode were synth-pop stalwarts in their home country and across continental Europe. Their first five albums had all performed extremely well there, but—as you may have picked up on through its omission from Part 1—this success did not extend to America.

Across the pond, Black Celebration barely cracked the top 100, peaking at #90 on the Billboard 200—a disappointing performance, especially compared to its predecessor, Some Great Reward, which reached #51. The band had scattered success in the U.S.—most notably the single “People are People,” a surprise hit that reached #13 on the Billboard Hot 100. However, they had never broken through, remaining confined to college radio stations, which were all the willing to play obscure, foreign acts.

Really, this time period—between March 1986 and September 1987—marked a band in purgatory: one that had achieved incredible artistic success, while the commercial success it warranted had yet to catch up. Depeche Mode were on the cusp of global stardom, and all they needed to seal it was one more great album, a worldwide tour—culminating in a performance so memorable it’s still talked about today—and a documentary film. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

A Prophetic Title

As the story goes, when Depeche Mode sat down to name their sixth studio album, they landed on the title Music for the Masses—not as a cocky declaration of their popularity, but for precisely the opposite reason: they weren’t particularly good at making music for the masses.

The late Andy Fletcher said of the matter, “The title's ... a bit tongue-in-cheek, really. Everyone is telling us we should make more commercial music, so that's the reason we chose that title.”2

This joke may have been lost on some listeners as—ironically—this album would arguably become one of their most globally accessible releases and, discounting their New Romantic beginnings in 1981, feature some of their most pop-sounding songs.

The Differences

Of course, this accessibility did come at a cost: cohesion. Music for the Masses is more varied in tone than its predecessor, and that atmosphere—so crucial to Black Celebration—has largely been eroded, though it does resurface at several points, as we shall see. It’s still darkwave, just less dark and less solemn than before.

Music for the Masses is probably the most quintessentially Depeche Mode-sounding record. The band’s instrumentation was at the top of its game—thanks to Alan Wilder—and the production was remarkably polished, giving the album a sleek, dynamic sound. And with an extended break before Violator—which arrived in the spring of 1990—this was their final release of the 1980s—defining the sound they—and the decade itself—would be remembered for.

Lyrically, however, the album does seem like a step backwards for chief songwriter, Martin Gore—not a big one, just a baby step for now. His incredible storytelling on Black Celebration—as in “World Full of Nothing”—and Some Great Reward—most notably “Blasphemous Rumours”—isn’t quite matched on Music for the Masses. The songs and lyrics feel more superficial and agreeable, with less to discover on each relisten.

Now, this is not to suggest that Music for the Masses is a weaker release than the band’s two prior records simply because it features music that was radio-ready and destined to sell copies—with arguably less lyrical nuance. On the contrary, it actually holds its own quite well against Black Celebration: its songs are equally strong, though more sonically diverse. In fact, Music for the Masses stands as the second chapter in a trilogy—a trilogy of Depeche Mode’s no-skip records.

The Songs

Unlike Black Celebration, where the tracks stand on nearly equal footing, Music for the Masses reveals noticeable variation in quality—some songs clearly rise above the rest. I’ll highlight five tracks that I feel are the strongest—and an extra one just for fun.

Never Let Me Down Again

In the first five seconds alone, “Never Let Me Down Again” proves just how far DM has ventured from Black Celebration: an infectious synth-pop hook for the ages that faintly echoes their industrial roots on Construction Time Again—an instant classic.

It’s good, old-fashioned fun—not too heady—just a catchy song about “taking a ride with [your] best friend,” which, more precisely, means using drugs. Gahan’s vocals truly shine on this track—jubilant with a touch of paranoia—complemented by Gore, who once again steps into the background. The piano interludes are a delightful touch as well.

The Things You Said

While I doubt many fans would agree, “The Things You Said” is, in my humble opinion, the strongest track on the entire album. The first of just two songs Gore sings lead, it’s a slow-burning meditation on betrayal and disappointment—a reprieve from the album’s fast-paced surrounding tracks.

Gahan may possess the most powerful voice in the group, but this track would suffer without Gore’s gentle, shattered voice—the perfect touch. Its strikingly minimalist, carried through by just a bass synth and a piano. And its atmosphere—just as palpable as on Black Celebration—trades morbidity for pure, aching sadness.

Strangelove

The most recognizable—and commercially successful—track on Music for the Masses, “Strangelove,” like “Never Let Me Down Again” is pure, upbeat synth-pop steeped in perverse lyrics. It’s contradictory—like a cheerful Smiths song—and while this makes it feel slightly out of place on an otherwise bleak record, it nonetheless proves to be an engaging listen.

Released as the album’s first single, “Strangelove” reached #16 on the U.K. charts3 and #50 on the Billboard Hot 100. It was, indeed, a song for the masses—one that likely took inspiration from a certain 1964 Stanley Kubrick film.

Behind the Wheel

In my mind, “Behind the Wheel” serves as a sister song to—a continuation of—Black Celebration’s “Fly On The Windscreen.” Perhaps it’s even about the same vehicle. Built on a strong beat and a graceful, pulsating synth, the track is seductively dreary, like an odd dream.

A remarkable fusion of pop and one of Gore’s more introspective ballads, “Behind the Wheel” may encapsulate this album better than anything—striking that middle ground between accessibility and artistry. It was released as the record’s third single, with a B-side: a dark, synth reimagining of the ‘40s R&B classic, “Route 66.”

Nothing

This song is a deep cut, little remembered and relegated to the tail end of the record. Nevertheless, “Nothing” is a true hidden gem: catchy, groovy, incredibly danceable—it grows on you almost instantly. It’s part funk, part darkwave—and surprisingly well-suited for a road trip, as we shall see.

Gahan delivers his cleanest vocals on the album, with subtle backing from Gore. Never thought I’d hear “ooh ooh” in a Depeche Mode song this late to the game—but here we are…

Pimpf

“Pimpf” is the closer, an instrumental track—one more at home playing during a Dark Souls boss fight than at end of a pop record. It’s playfully glum and not to be taken too seriously—especially when the brightest song on the record, “Nothing,” immediately precedes it.

While “Pimpf” is arguably the least consequential song on Music for the Masses, it would go on to play an important role in Depeche Mode’s subsequent tour—and accompanying documentary.

Reception—Critical

Music for the Masses was released on September 28th, 1987 to critical acclaim and considerable fanfare. Smash Hits’ John Barty awarded the record a nine out of ten—Depeche Mode’s best review to that point—though The Smiths’ finale, Strangeways Here We Come, received a ten in that same issue.

Some of the vitriol that plagued Black Celebration, however, did carry over to this release—specifically, the sexual, slightly perverted lyrical undertones.

Melody Maker—which gave a particularly damning review to their last record—struck once again. Paul Mathur opened his piece with, “The peculiar Frenchman Bellia informs me that French youth refer to this comva as Depede Moche, which apparently means something like Dirt Paedophiliacs.”4 Needless to say, the rest of the review wasn’t very flattering…

Turning to RateYourMusic—the ever-pertinent source of community-driven album ratings—we find that Music for the Masses holds a score of 3.84 out of 5, just a literal hair below Black Celebration, which received a rating of 3.85.

This opens Depeche Mode up to yet another comparison with New Order: two pairs of nearly identically rated, back-to-back studio albums. For DM, that would be Black Celebration (1986) and Music for the Masses (1987); for New Order, the pioneering Power, Corruption & Lies and the aforementioned Low-Life (1985)—see Part 1.

For these four decade-defining albums to end up with essentially the same rating is certainly an anomaly. Depeche Mode wins the tiebreaker, though—they didn’t need to take a year off, unlike New Order.

Reception—Commercial

Interestingly, Music for the Masses reached just #10 in the U.K.5—six spots below Black Celebration’s peak. It’s an oddity, and certainly a fluke, for a band that had otherwise consistently outdone themselves with each release in their home country.

On a related note, less than a year earlier, Vince Clarke’s new outfit, Erasure, scored a smash hit with “Sometimes,” the first single from their second album, The Circus, which went on to reach #6 on the U.K. album charts in April 1987.6 Depeche Mode was being outdone by one of its own founding members.

Abroad, however, Music for the Masses fared much better—reaching #2 in Germany,7 #4 in Switzerland,8 #7 in France,9 and even #35 on the Billboard 200, though that placement is somewhat misleading…

So, while Music for the Masses peaking at #35 on U.S. charts may not seem that extraordinary—Some Great Reward reached just #59—its staying power certainly was. The record stayed on the Billboard 200 for a whopping 59 weeks—over twice as long as Black Celebration.

To put this feat into better perspective, I’ll compare it to those of two other alternative bands of the era: R.E.M. and The Cure—both of whom released an album in 1987.

R.E.M.’s Document, released on September 1st, peaked at #10 on the Billboard 200, dropping of the chart after 33 weeks.10 The Cure’s Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, released on May 26th, peaked at #3511—just like Music for the Masses—and stayed on the chart for 52 weeks.

Even though R.E.M. was far more established in the U.S. than The Cure—being from Athens, GA and all—their album peaked much higher and fell off the chart far quicker. The Cure—like Depeche Mode—cultivated their fanbase more slowly, but with great consistency and over a longer period.

For Depeche Mode, there was a catalyst to all this, as I mentioned at the beginning: a monumental tour—a tour for the masses—across the U.S., and a concert film documenting it all.

A Tour for the Masses

Depeche Mode began their Music For The Masses Tour on October 22nd, 1987—just weeks after the album’s release. It would prove to be their longest yet: 101 shows across three continents.

The band spent the first month touring across mainland Europe—where they had long drawn large crowds—before hopping the Atlantic in December for about a dozen U.S. dates. They then returned to Europe and continued on to Japan through the following April.

This is where the story gets interesting: Depeche Mode returned to the U.S., kicking off their second leg in Mountain View, California, on April 29th, 1988.12 Over the next two months, they zigzagged across the continent, playing thirty shows—while a film crew documented it all.

101

Depeche Mode could feel themselves on the verge of something special in the United States—finally breaking free from the confining moniker of alternative music and stepping into the mainstream. That’s why they decided to tap renowned documentarian D.A. Pennebaker to capture the moment for the big screen.

As a film, 101 offers an incredibly gripping look at the dynamics of a band in their absolute prime—rapidly approaching their creative peak as their commercial success begins to catch up with them right before their eyes.

It’s immediately striking how a band with no traditional instruments—just synths and drum machines—can be so engaging live. Gahan, neither a writer nor a musician, makes up for it by fully embodying his role as DM’s frontman.

He carries immense pressure: Gore, Wilder, and Fletcher remain motionless, playing their synths in the dimly lit background—leaving him to strut and dance alone in the spotlight. It’s an interesting sight to see Gore like this—in the shadows—while Gahan receives the applause, performing the songs that Gore had wrote.

101 is a bit of a medley—a hodgepodge of concert footage the final thirty U.S. performances, scenes of the band on the road, DM’s management trying to prop up ticket sales, and a group of contest-winning fans traveling across the country to see the band’s last show.

This 101st and final show—at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California—is the emotional arc of the film, and the source of its name: can Depeche Mode sell it out?

Predicting Personalities

Along the way, we learn a lot about the personalities of the band members. The first two were more predictable—the last pair, however, were quite surprising.

Dave Gahan is the boisterous, high-spirited one—bringing the fun and excitement, cracking jokes, but also snapping at the crew on occasion. He tells a story about an altercation with a cab driver, whom he gutlessly attacks from behind—it’s unclear whether this was meant as a joke or not.

Martin Gore is the shy, thoughtful, most interestingly-dressed one—slightly uneasy throughout the filming, yet willing to show his comic side from time to time. At one point, Gahan trades the spotlight with him during “The Things You Said,” which Gore performs while nervously leaning against a raised platform, certainly not matching the frontman’s swagger.

Alan Wilder is the knowledgeable one—the classically trained musician—and proves his skills early in the film, demonstrating the complicated keyboard and drum pad settings required to play “Black Celebration” live. He comes across as the most intelligent of the bunch, aside from Gore, perhaps.

And Andy Fletcher—“Fletch”—he’s the ambiguous one. He openly admits that his role in the band is less categorical than the rest: “Martin’s the songwriter, Alan’s the good musician, Dave’s the vocalist, and I bum around,” he says. But Fletch’s job was a noble one: to be the glue—holding Depeche Mode together and keeping the other three from being at each other’s throats.

The KROQ Factor

In Nashville, Depeche Mode perform to a crowd of just 2,000—the concert footage showing an auditorium noticeably below capacity. Funnily enough, the band was fairly pleased with the turnout, having expected even fewer people to show—a modest bump saved by last-minute promotions from their management.

This was a recurring theme in the film: Depeche Mode suffered greatly from infrequent radio play across America. In a southern, conservative market like Nashville, this translated to dramatically fewer ticket sales.

One saving grace of this tour stop was the band’s visit to a country record store, where Martin Gore is shown carefully examining a Johnny Cash cassette—the legendary musician who would later cover Gore’s “Personal Jesus” in 2002.

Unlike in Nashville, on the West Coast—specifically Los Angeles—Depeche Mode had been receiving considerable airplay on the popular radio stations KROQ, which championed their more alternative strain of synthpop. Stations in other markets began to follow suit, and with greater airplay came significantly higher ticket sales.

The Finale

The documentary ends on a high note: June 18th, 1988, when Depeche Mode performed to a sold-out crowd of over 65,000 fans at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.

Waiting until after sunset and for total darkness to take the stage, the band powered through a medley of tracks from their three most recent records—three phenomenal, groundbreaking albums. They faced a passing thunder storm—including a nearby lightning strike, met with screams, during “Something To Do.”13

Their best performance of the night, in my opinion, was “Blasphemous Rumours,” which so fittingly occurred through a black curtain of drizzling rain. Even through the film cameras, the emotion of the crowd is palpable.

Depeche Mode ended their second and final encore of the night with two songs: “Just Can’t Get Enough” and “Everything Counts,”—hits from their early days. It was a fitting way to end what was, in many ways, the singular zenith of their career—a reflection of how much they’d grown in just eight short years.

Dave Gahan ended their final song by leading the audience of 65,000 in singing the chorus: “The grabbing hands grab all they / Everything counts in large amounts,” pausing to gaze in genuine awe at the spectacle, beaming all the while.

Finally, Dave Gahan, Martin Gore, Alan Wilder, and Andy Fletcher walked off stage to a deafening final applause from an audience absolutely gripped from start to finish. Depeche Mode had finally made it—and their best was yet to come.

40 years ago today—May 13^th, 1985—New Order released their third studio album, Low-Life. In honor of this occasion, let’s look back at the creation, reception, and legacy of this outstanding record.

New Order?

New Order? What’s that? A frequently heard exclamation among Americans. Sure, New Order may not have achieved the international success or staying power of other legendary British acts of the ‘80s—like The Cure, The Smiths, or Depeche Mode—but hell, their music is just as good.

Most people today who actually do know New Order recognize them for their string of electronic hits in the ’80s including “True Faith,” “Bizarre Love Triangle,” and the legendary dance anthem “Blue Monday.” However, the Manchester-based band did not have its roots in Britain’s flourishing synthesizer-based New Wave movement—as most would expect. New Order actually got their start in a radically different setting: the post-punk scene. This confusion—no pun intended—stems from the fact that New Order wasn’t known as New Order then. In fact, they weren’t technically even the same band. From 1978 to 1980, the group that would become New Order helped change the face of alternative music under a different name: Joy Division.

This article isn’t intended to be a history of Joy Division—I’ll tackle that eventually. So, to keep it brief: after creating two masterworks—Unknown Pleasures (1979) and Closer (1980)—Joy Division’s lead singer and chief lyricist Ian Curtis committed suicide on the eve of the band’s first North American tour. In the face of this tragedy, the band’s three remaining members—Bernard Sumner (guitar), Peter Hook (bass), and Stephen Morris (drums)—quickly reformed under a new name: New Order. With Sumner now on vocals, the trio also enlisted the help of keyboardist Gillian Gilbert.

Those Early Years

In their early days New Order struggled to find their footing—to separate themselves musically from Joy Division. Their first single, “Ceremony” (1981), was technically a cover of a song they recorded with Curtis just days before his death. Later that year, New Order released their first studio album, Movement—a solid record, though one lacking a cohesive sound, gazing backwards rather than forward. It feels like a Joy Division record without its most essential ingredient: Curtis. And we can be sympathetic; the band was still figuring things out—unsure themselves of what they wanted New Order to be.

The following year, they found steadier ground with their single “Temptation,” embracing a synth-pop sound—among the roughest in the genre. In 1983, they continued down that path with the dance track “Blue Monday”—which would eventually become the best-selling 12-inch single of all time—and their second studio album Power, Corruption & Lies. Here, New Order really began to hit their stride, heavily integrating synthesizers with their guitar-driven post-punk roots, cultivating a sound unlike any band of the era—or any since. Granted, the album still has its Joy Division-esque moments—like “Age of Consent,” “Ultraviolence,” and “Leave Me Alone”—but in these songs, Sumner’s vocals are more expressive, no longer attempting to mimic Curtis’s as he had on Movement. A new, brighter—albeit not elated—band emerged in ’83 from the despondent ashes of Joy Division.

It Even Has Frogs…

My drawn-out backstory is now over—apologies for that. Come May 1985, New Order had just released their third studio album, Low-Life, on the heels of the 1984 single “Thieves Like Us”—my all-time favorite New Order song. Low-Life represented a departure for the band in a number of ways. First and foremost, they broke their long-standing tradition of not putting their singles on their studio albums. This time around, Low-Life contained two singles: “The Perfect Kiss” and “Sub-Culture”—the latter released that Fall. To hammer in how crazy this is: for the first five years of the band’s existence, their singles—what were objectively their strongest songs—weren’t included on their albums. And still, those were two solid albums. The financial difficulties of the band’s label, Factory Records, influenced them to go this more commercially appealing route with Low-Life.

This record is also the first—and only—to feature the band members on its cover—or really, just one: Drummer Stephen Morris. Fortunately, images of the other three are included in the CD release, so you can swap Stephen out for a different, less intimidating photo (see below). The image is sandwiched between a folded piece of translucent paper with “New Order” written in metallic lettering—another cool touch (also see below).

Low-Life is immediately more polished and crisper sounding than Power, Corruption and Lies—the product of a larger production budget and a band growing ever more confident in its musical and technical abilities. Indeed, advancements in synthesizer technology played a huge role in shaping the album’s sound. Not to get too technical—for an in-depth dive see Substance: Inside New Order by Peter Hook—but essentially, new synthesizers and samplers allowed for a richer, more textured soundscape. And yes, it even has frogs.

Track by Track

First up is “Love Vigilantes”—arguably both the most and least New Order-sounding song on the record. It’s got melodica—harmonica’s reedy cousin—melodramatic lyrics, and Sumner on acoustic guitar. It’s part country, part punk, and conspicuously devoid of synths—what more could you ask to kick off a New Order album? And yes, while “Love Vigilantes” remains one of the band’s most beloved songs, it’s certainly hard to explain in the context of the seven tracks that follow on Low-Life—but that’s part of the New Order charm, I suppose.

Up next is “The Perfect Kiss”—where the lack of synths on the previous track is repaid with interest. This song has a lot going on, beginning with perhaps the best bass hook the band ever produced—and that’s saying something—courtesy of Peter Hook. Sumner’s vocals are clumsy, frequently off-key, and nonsensically deliver lines about “pretending not to see his gun,” though he’ll still go out and have some fun. Add in a distorted synth solo, a moment of tranquil weirdness featuring those famous eerie frog noises, and Hook’s bass to round it all out, and you’ve got a New Order track for the ages. You may not love it on first listen, but its awkward genius grows on you—ultimately making it the standout song on the album.

“This Time of Night” offers a lull from the energy of the previous two tracks. As is a common theme on this record, Sumner’s vocals are painful on this cut—though in a slightly less charming way than on other entries. Hook’s bass is the saving grace of this track, accompanied by a refreshing keyboard solo. Overall, “This Time of Night” stands as one of the weaker tracks on Low-Life—though by no means a bad song. Instead, it finds its strength in adding a new, mellower flavor to the record, counterbalancing the surrounding entries.

The quintessential alternative rock track of the album—“Sunrise” better than any other encapsulates New Order’s evolution from its post-punk days. It’s got an oomph—a jolt of electricity—that’s wholly absent from their first two records, or from any of Joy Division’s discography, for that matter. Their versatility as musicians is on full display—just compare Sunrise to the electronic tapestry two songs earlier, “The Perfect Kiss”; it barely sounds like the same band.

That minute-long fade-in… to an instrumental track? “Elegia” may not pique interest like “The Perfect Kiss” or “Love Vigilantes,” but musically, it’s perhaps the best of New Order’s output—try learning to play it on piano. It’s truly a captivating five-minute experience—though in all its glory, “Elegia” stretches over 17 minutes and would feel more at home in sci-fi film than on a synth-pop album. It’s the band’s tribute to Ian Curtis, carried off by that chilling guitar solo—no flash, all fading atmosphere.

One of my favorite slices of Low-Life, “Sooner Than You Think” finds the perfect fusion of electronic and rock elements. It’s catchy synth-pop—like “This Time of Night”—that doesn’t take itself too seriously, yet it retains the passionate, alternative rock magic of “Sunrise.” It’s truly the best of both worlds. “Oh, you know what I mean… yes, you do.”

“Sub-Culture” is easily the most danceable track on the album—remixed as a single specifically for club play. The album version, however, sits somewhere in the middle—fun, but not as innovative or compelling as earlier tracks, and slightly drawn out. Sumner’s vocals are once again underwhelming, though largely obscured by the instrumentals. “Sub-Culture” stands as the most commercial track on Low-Life—and, for that reason, the least New Order-like.

Last—but maybe actually least—on the record is the eighth track, “Face Up”: a disjointed, bombastic, yet admirably ambitious part-synth, part-punk effort. As the most vocally demanding song—with all that erratic shouting—Sumner delivers a predictably uneven performance—though it’s softened by the low expectations already set by the first seven tracks. His guitar solo in the final 90 seconds is a welcome surprise, carrying “Face Up” to a polarizing conclusion. It’s a bit of an enigma—like the band itself—and winds down Low-Life at the 40-minute mark, leaving the listener wanting just a little bit more.

Reception

Low-Life was released on May 13, 1985, to much critical acclaim and fanfare. It peaked at #7 on the UK charts—where it remained for 10 weeks—and became the first New Order album to chart in America, reaching #94. Neil Tennant—then of Smash Hits—gave it an 8 out of 10 rating, writing that “the songs are much stronger than usual—not just doomy electronic workouts but memorable melodies with a sense of humour lurking in the words.”1 An apt summary, giving Low-Life official Pet Shop Boys—and Electronic—approval.

Of course, the album had its detractors too. It was often said that Low-Life lacked the profundity of Joy Division’s output—shifting from the gravity of a track like “Love Will Tear Us Apart” (1980) to the absurdity of “Love Vigilantes” in a span of five years. Unsurprisingly, Sumner’s strained vocals drew ire from listeners far and wide. And for some, the flip-flops between post-punk, synth pop, and dance were off-putting, making the album feel incohesive—much like Movement, or even Power, Corruption & Lies. Yet these critiques were few and far between, and were drowned out by near-universal praise for the band.

Legacy

Today, Low-Life remains one of—if not the—most beloved New Order albums. NME ranked it second on their list of the band’s best records, surpassed only by Power, Corruption & Lies.2 And yes, their second album is the only one that can truly give Low-Life a run for its money—although its lack of polish, in my opinion, makes that difficult to justify.

Turning to fan consensus, the community-driven website RateYourMusic gives both albums identical ratings on a five-point scale: 3.84—making them the sixth- and tenth-best records of ’83 and ’85, respectively. New Order would follow Low-Life with their fourth album, the well-received Brotherhood, in 1986, along with the popular standalone single “Shellshock.” And then in 1987, they released the single “True Faith” and the compilation album Substance—netting them their first major success in North America. Yet in retrospect, regardless of chart success, the release of Low-Life in 1985 clearly marked a creative peak for the band—halfway through the decade whose music they helped define.

On Spotify, Low-Life is New Order’s third most-streamed studio album—distantly behind Power, Corruption and & Lies and Brotherhood—with 77 million total streams and 21 thousand daily.3 This is dwarfed by their contemporaries’ releases around that time: 162 million total, 64 thousand daily for Depeche Mode’s Some Great Reward (1984);4 260 million total and 152 thousand daily for The Smiths’ Meat is Murder (1985);5 and a staggering 713 million total and 265 thousand daily for The Cure’s The Head on the Door (1985).6

So, does this make Low-Life an inferior album—and New Order a lesser band? No. It just makes listening to this hidden gem of an album, by a grossly undervalued band, all the sweeter.

Some Final Thoughts

New Order toes the line with Low-Life: between too grave and too flippant; too post-punk and too synth-pop; and too indie and too commercial. Really, there’s something for everyone on this album—if you look carefully enough.

Some bands make music that’s quick to unravel. On the first listen, you understand it for exactly what it is—all that it will be—with everything laid right out in the open. Other bands make music that is tougher to crack: you might come around to it after several relistens, or you may never grow to appreciate it. Low-Life—and its precursor, Power, Corruption & Lies—are two powerful examples of why New Order belongs to the latter camp.

Truth be told, I was slightly disappointed by Low-Life after my first listen. That signature New Order sound—the blurring of genre lines—felt abrasive, not helped at all by Sumner’s vocals. Moments of brilliance—like “Love Vigilantes” and “Elegia”—were surrounded by what felt like filler, shuffled about and only occasionally surfacing. Yet this wasn’t a matter of distaste, but of unfamiliarity. With each subsequent listen, some new quality stood out to me: the bassline of “The Perfect Kiss,” the infectious energy of “Sunrise,” or—most recently—the pure catchiness of “Sooner Than You Think.”

I haven’t quite cracked every track yet—still waiting on “Sub-Culture” and “Face Up”—and who knows if I ever will? But with the element of surprise still drawing me in, I’ll keep coming back to this record—hopefully for years to come.

So, happy 40^th birthday, Low-Life…

Of all the synth-pop bands of the 1980s, one stands far above the rest in both their commitment to the genre and the quality of their output—and yes, the title may have spoiled it: it’s Depeche Mode.

They may not have been the first or, initially, the most revolutionary group of the bunch—New Order takes that prize, in my opinion—but DM maintained an incredible streak of consistency: seven phenomenal albums in nine years throughout the decade. This made them the most globally acclaimed synth-pop group ever.

Other groups—like the Pet Shop Boys, The Human League, OMD, and even New Order—either couldn’t reach DM’s creative heights or failed to match their prolific output. They aren’t inherently lesser acts, but they simply don’t belong on the same podium as this legendary band.

The Prime Years

The golden age of Depeche Mode spanned four studio albums over six years, from 1984 to 1990, culminating in a band at their commercial and creative peak. It was quite a surprising turn of events, considering where DM began the decade. In 1981, they were glorified synth-brats, riding the New Wave trend, making songs with little musical expertise or lyrical nuance—though they certainly weren’t bad ones (see the music video for “Just Can’t Get Enough”—it’s laughable).

But over this time, a transformation occurred for the British synth-pop quartet. While most contemporary acts faded away, Depeche Mode endured—and evolved into mature, cultivated songwriters. In March 1990, they released their seventh studio album, Violator, which featured their magnum opus—one of the greatest songs of all time: “Enjoy the Silence.”

The journey to Violator was long and intricate. In this article, we’ll examine the two pivotal records at the center of this era: Black Celebration (1986) and Music for the Masses (1987)—their similarities, differences, legacy, and how they paved the way for the band’s greatest work.

But before diving into Depeche Mode’s 1986 effort, let’s first take a brief look at all the group had accomplished up to that point.

Stories of Old

Depeche Mode began life in 1980 in Basildon, a suburb of London, with an original lineup featuring vocalist Dave Gahan, songwriters Martin Gore and Vince Clarke, and keyboardist Andy Fletcher.

They released their debut album, Speak & Spell, the following fall and saw immediate commercial success, with three charting singles—one of which, “Just Can’t Get Enough,” reached #81—and the album itself peaking at #10.2

Following this, at the end of 1981, Clarke left the band. The remaining members continued on as a trio. As an aside, Clarke embarked on a legendary career of his own, founding two subsequent groups: Yazoo with Alison Moyet, and later, Erasure with Andy Bell.

DM released their next album, A Broken Frame, in 1982, which largely continued the accessible synth-pop sound of Speak & Spell. With Clarke off working on Yazoo, Gore took the helm on this record, writing every song—a role he would maintain across the band’s next five releases.

That winter, Depeche Mode solidified their lineup with the addition of multi-instrumentalist Alan Wilder, who became their primary arranger. He would go on to become group’s unsung hero, transforming Gore’s bare demos into beautifully layered electronic tapestries.

In 1983, DM began their creative ascent, releasing the delightful single “Get the Balance Right!” and their third studio album, Construction Time Again. With this release, the band entered their ‘industrial phase,’3 fusing a darker, more mechanical sound with politically and socially relevant lyrics—as exemplified by “Everything Counts.”

Some Great Reward

Despite this growth, a tinge of triflingness remained in Depeche Mode’s music. This would be an unfair judgement—one not applied to other bands, like Duran Duran—were it not for the incredible work ahead; the standard they are retrospectively held to must be higher.

This is why, for me, their next release, 1984’s Some Great Reward, marks a watershed—the bridge between the youthful frivolity of DM’s early work and the emotional maturity of their latter. It is, truly, both an exhilarating and demoralizing listen at the exact same time.

Some Great Reward is probably my favorite Depeche Mode album—not because it’s their best (that prize goes to Violator), or their most innovative (that’s Black Celebration, as we shall see), but for entirely intangible reasons: I just like its vibe.

And while this—the first release of DM’s golden era—isn’t supposed to be the focal point of this article, I feel compelled to mention one standout track: arguably one of the most important songs the band has ever released.

Blasphemous Rumours

This song is heavy—certainly the most wrenching the group ever wrote. Martin Gore, now a seasoned storyteller, weaves a harrowing narrative of teenage despair: a girl of sixteen slashes her wrists, only to embrace Jesus and a second chance—before being struck by a car. On this, Gore reflects: “I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours / But I think that god has a sick sense of humour / And when I die, I expect to find him laughing.” The industrial synths only deepen the sting—it’s haunting.

This track—released in October 1984 as a double A-side single alongside the ballad “Somebody”—caused a stir in religious circles for its not so subtle critique of God. Still, it performed well, reaching #16 on the charts.4 Depeche Mode was finally ready to ruffle feathers with music that tackled issues of real weight, and with this artistic shift, their next album would reach new heights.

“Life In The So-Called Space Age”

After the release of Some Great Reward and the supporting tour that followed, Depeche Mode put out two non-album singles in 1985: “Shake The Disease” and “It’s Called a Heart.” While the latter track was admittedly forgettable, the former marked a bold departure. “Shake The Disease” signaled the band’s embrace of a darker brand of synth-pop—what would later be identified as darkwave.

Darkwave would prove to be the defining theme of DM’s fifth studio album. Released on March 17th, 1986, Black Celebration marked the band’s first concept album and remains, to this day, their most cohesive effort. Its atmosphere—vividly “a tech-noir future dystopia”5—is penetrating, unbroken throughout the album’s twelve tracks.

The songs coalesce so seamlessly that it’s hardly apparent Black Celebration isn’t just one continuous 45-minute track. Gore uses this space to bleakly reflect on everything from mortality and loneliness to technology and the British cult of celebrity. This record also sees the songwriter stepping into the spotlight, singing lead on an unprecedented four tracks.

Black Celebration represents Depeche Mode at their most audacious—and it’s their album with the least filler. This is truly the quintessential no-skip record. Each track holds a distinct place within the album’s framework and, quite unusually, none stand significantly above or below the rest in terms of quality—or commercial success, for that matter. Glancing at the band’s Spotify stats, the most streamed song on the album, “Stripped,” doesn’t even crack their top 20 most popular tracks.6 It’s a collection of nearly a dozen cult favorites—songs never destined to be smash hits, but exceptional just the same.

At this point, I would usually discuss the album’s strongest tracks—but since they’re all incredibly strong, I’ll highlight several that I feel are the most innovative.

Fly On The Windscreen

The second track of the record sets the tone for all that follows: “Death is everywhere”—that could be the album’s motto. “Fly On The Windscreen” is a very vocal-heavy track, with the synths preferring to stay in the background. Dave Gahan’s voice shines like gold against an apocalyptic backdrop, complete with zombie sounds and excerpts from ABC World News Tonight’s special report, “Hiroshima: 40 Years Later”7—of all things.

A Question of Time

“A Question of Time” is creepy—but not in the dystopian way you might expect. This track is one of Gore’s great narratives: about a man trying to protect a 15-year-old girl from exploitation, though its unclear whether he’s any less culpable himself. It’s fast-paced, catchy, and provocative—much like Sublime’s “The Wrong Way,” which would arrive a decade later.

Stripped

The most popular—and best—track on Black Celebration, “Stripped” is, by all definitions, a typically structured pop song: a song about love. But, as implied by its name, the production is strikingly bare—driven almost entirely by Gahan’s powerfully chilling vocals, his best on the album by far: “Let me see you stripped down to the bone.”

It’s eerie and seems to be missing something, yet it’s unmistakably sincere—Gore teases a hidden meaning that simply doesn’t exist. Beginning at a hair over the 24-minute mark, “Stripped” stands as the zenith of the entire record.

World Full of Nothing

Another of Martin Gore’s flirtations with lead vocals, “World Full of Nothing” is a sleepy track—even more minimalist than “Stripped,” built around just one lone synthesizer. It doesn’t even sound like a finished product—more like one of Gore’s demos (check out his version of “Shake The Disease”—it’s as strong as the final cut).

It’s the story of two teenagers, each feeling the embrace of the other sex for the first time—“Though it's not love, it means something.” The quiet brings tension—raw, quivering tension—viscerally reminding the listener of some silence they felt before—maybe like the song’s two subjects. I know it does for me.

New Dress

“New Dress”—not to be confused with Violator’s “Blue Dress”—is the final track on U.K. release of the record; U.S. versions included the bonus track “But Not Tonight.” And, cheekily, it’s the closest Depeche Mode comes to breaking the character of Black Celebration. After all those themes of death, loneliness, and perversion, we’re interrupted—at long last—by a political song. How interesting.

Gore delves into the superficiality of British tabloids and their enamorment with the royal family. He’s not shy about sharing his opinion—though by this point in the record, its meaning may be lost on more than a few listeners. All of it is held together by Gahan’s distorted refrain: “Princess Di is wearing a new dress”—a poignant end to a record with no shortage of emotional intensity.

Reception

Despite being a daunting record to market due to its concept-driven nature, Black Celebration proved to be Depeche Mode’s highest-charting album yet— peaking at #4 on the UK charts.8 Three singles were released to support it: the aforementioned “Stripped” and “A Question of Time,” along with “A Question Lust”—none of which cracked the top ten.

Critically, the album was relatively well received. Smash Hits’ Chris Heath gave it an 8 out of 10, writing that Black Celebration was “the first time they haven’t had to throw in any second-rate stodge.”9 And he wasn’t wrong. In the past, DM—like many bands of the era—prospered on their singles: “Everything Counts,” “People are People,” and the like. How rare to find an album where most of its strongest songs didn’t even make the cut.

Melody Maker was less kind, lambasting the band as “even more over-anxious than they were on the depressing Some Great Reward to shock for the sake of it, pussycats desperate to appear perverted as an escape from the superficiality of teen stardom.”10 It was an extremely harsh review—certainly in the minority, but not out of the ordinary, especially among those who preferred the radio-friendly tunes of Depeche Mode’s yesteryear.

Interestingly, Spin ranked Black Celebration the 15th greatest album of all time just three years after its release11—New Order’s Low-Life came in at #10. Now, I love both these albums as much as anyone, but I’m not sure I’d go quite that far…

That said, it does invite a fascinating question: who’s better—Depeche Mode or New Order?

Depeche Mode vs. New Order

I know—I claimed at the beginning of this article that Depeche Mode were superior to all their contemporaries, including New Order. However, Low-Life and Black Celebration—released slightly over ten months apart—feel like sister albums in many ways: two bands rapidly approaching their creative high marks.

New Order pushed forward not so much through lyrical prowess, but unmistakably with their instrumentation. Low-Life is a feast for the ears: sleek electronic textures crossed with an unpolished alternative rock charm.

Conversely, Depeche Mode moved the needle not through their instrumentation, which was already polished and quite strong on Some Great Reward—if anything, they took a “less is more approach” on Black Celebration. What DM did do, however, was write songs with more heart—Gore’s narratives propelled them to the forefront of innovation in the darkwave genre.

When deciding which album is better, personally, I’d have to call it a tie. They are both incredible records that showcase the imperial phases of two decade-defining bands. And the fact that the community-driven website RateYourMusic shows them in a statistical tie—each receiving a 3.85 out of 5—only reinforces my opinion.

An Enduring Influence

Black Celebration was an incredibly influential album—arguably more so than any of the band’s other releases. Depeche Mode proved that emotionally resonant music could be crafted within the framework of the extravagant, aesthetics-obsessed New Wave movement. And with that, many upstart artists quickly took notice.

The album’s most direct impact was on Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, who saw Depeche Mode in the summer of 1986 during their supporting tour for the record. On DM’s Facebook page, Reznor shared his story, commenting: “I left that show grateful, humbled, energized, focused, and in awe of how powerful and transformative music can be… and I started writing what would eventually become Pretty Hate Machine.”12

There’s a striking similarity between the two albums’ sounds—both musically, through intense minimalism, and lyrically, with Reznor taking a page from Gore’s songwriting handbook. In fact, NIN’s producer on Pretty Hate Machine (1989), Mark “Flood” Ellis, had previously worked with DM—on their single “Black Celebration.” He would go on to collaborate with them again, producing their seventh album, Violator (1990).

Without Black Celebration, it’s safe to say that Nine Inch Nails’ debut album Pretty Hate Machine would sound significantly different—if it were even created at all—and the history of industrial rock would be much poorer for it. Going further, it’s doubtful that another connection between the two groups would have formed: both had their songs later covered by Johnny Cash.

Some Final Words

Although I’ve been a devoted Depeche Mode fan for years, inexplicably, I never got around to listening to Black Celebration in full until this February. It was always the odd one out—the record that threw me off. It doesn’t have any of their greatest hits, I used to say. So why should I listen?

It’s incredibly challenging to do justice to an album that hinges entirely on atmosphere—one so novel for its time and, arguably, unsurpassed in the four decades since. The only way to truly grasp Black Celebration is to hear for yourself—and enter your very own world full of nothing.

Stay tuned for Part 2—where we’ll discuss DM’s sixth album, Music for the Masses, and the monumental American tour that followed.

There’s an intersection in music between the good and the groundbreaking—between quality and influence. Pioneering work isn’t necessarily high in quality, and high-quality music isn’t always pioneering. And, of course, some music—alas, most music—is neither good nor groundbreaking. Like any art form, a new musical style isn’t always embraced with open arms when it first emerges. A band that comes along and changes everything—with a sound unlike any that came before—can initially baffle listeners and be difficult to gauge.

For example, Nothing’s Shocking by Jane’s Addiction, released in 1988, was largely responsible for kickstarting the alternative rock sound that would define the 1990s. But personally, aside from the standout track “Jane Says,” I don’t particularly enjoy this album. Another album—Daydream Nation by Sonic Youth, also released in 1988—was similarly influential. Yet it’s another record I’ve struggled to appreciate beyond its leadoff track, “Teenage Riot.” The people at Pitchfork are really disappointed.1

I can voice my indifference to both works—specifically, their unpolished production and lack of cohesion. But to appreciate the history of music is to acknowledge that without these two albums, Kurt Cobain and Nirvana likely wouldn’t have been inspired to create Bleach, released the following year, or the seminal Nevermind (1991), which launched grunge into the mainstream and transformed the soundscape of the ‘90s. So, while I might not see their greatness, future creators of great music did—and learned from it.

There is such a thing as creating a great work too early—being ahead of the curve—and thus not reaping the benefits of it until years, or even decades, later. It’s unfortunate for those artists, but necessary for musical style to evolve.

The topic of today’s article is arguably the original influential alternative rock album: The Velvet Underground & Nico (1967), a work misunderstood in its own time, yet now widely considered one of the greatest albums ever made.

A Brief History

The Velvet Underground was formed in New York in 1964 by singer-songwriter Lou Reed, classically trained instrumentalist John Cale, guitarist Sterling Morrison, and drummer Angus MacLise—who was quickly replaced by Moe Tucker—taking their name from a 1963 book about atypical sexual behavior, an apt inspiration, as we shall later see. Their experimental sound and presence in New York’s art scene soon attracted the attention of famed pop artist Andy Warhol, who became their manager the following year, made them the house band at his studio, The Factory, and introduced the group to German singer Nico.

After more than a year of touring with Warhol’s multimedia exhibition, the Exploding Plastic Inevitable—a ‘60s-style happening—the band compiled their strongest songs, recorded them in mid-1966, signed with MGM’s Verve Records, which released their debut studio album, The Velvet Underground & Nico, the following year on March 12th, 1967—Warhol himself having designed its now-iconic cover. The album was neither well-received critically—initially, that is—nor commercially successful, not even cracking Billboard’s Top 100.

Brash by Design

The record has an incredibly low production quality—so much so that it’s not a pleasant listening experience. The band pioneered drone on this album: sustained sounds, often a single note, carried throughout entire songs. While this creates an abrasive tone that—as we shall see—aligns closely with the subject matter of the songs, but also amplifies every blemish in these six-decade-old recordings, which were already of poor quality in their own day. The recording budget for these songs was reportedly about $3,0002—and believe me, it shows.

So, it’s certainly hard to argue that the songs themselves sound beautiful on this record—even though most are objectively beautiful compositions. This disconnect likely contributed to the album’s poor commercial performance—it simply was too weird and challenging to listen to. But another factor in its failure—and, for me personally, the very reason the record is great—was the taboo, controversial subject matter that Reed and company tackled.

Included on The Velvet Underground & Nico are songs that explore everything from prostitution and sexual deviance to urban decay and—allegedly—the glorification of heroin addiction. Some of these themes are more prevalent than others, with one in particular being a little too on the nose. Nevertheless, they remain tense, uncomfortable topics for most Americans—even today—let alone over when the record was released over 58 years ago.

And that, right there, is the genius of The Velvet Underground & Nico: the guts it took for a band to release an album doomed to unleash a fury of public outrage; the courage required to openly address topics that actually weighed on society—instead of yet another hollow love song or tale of a psychedelic trip, as was fashionable at the time. The instrumentals make it a good album, but Reed’s lyrics make it meaningful—something more than just a great album.

Peel Slowly and See…

The Velvet Underground & Nico is not an even work—some songs on the album are considerably stronger than others. Nor is it a concept album with a unified theme and musical style throughout, like the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s, released the same year. For the sake of brevity, I’ve chosen to focus only on the tracks that truly exemplify the musical and thematic advances of this record—therefore, several of the less significant ones are absent from the following section.

I’m Waiting for the Man

This is the second track on the album, following “Sunday Morning,” and the first to openly tackle the issue of drugs. The song roars to life with energetic guitar, bass, and piano—reminiscent of an early Beatles tune like “Twist and Shout.” But that resemblance to innocent pop ends quickly when Reed begins singing about waiting for the man, 26 dollars in hand. Yes, this track is about buying heroin on Lexington Avenue and 125^th Street in Harlem, anxiously awaiting his dealer’s arrival. Catchy and danceable—ironic, considering its aberrant lyrics—“I’m Waiting for the Man” sets the expectations for the rest of the album: this won’t be the typical ‘60s pop record—and will be all the better for it.

Femme Fatale

One of VU’s most popular songs, “Femme Fatale” is the first track on which Nico sings lead. And despite her thick German accent coming through at times— “what a clonn”—her delivery is beautifully distant, complimented by Morrison’s clean, tranquil guitar line. Reed wrote the lyrics, at Warhol’s direction, about the artist’s muse, Edie Sedgwick; and, as the song’s title suggests, they portray a dangerous, seductive woman. This track is unmistakably ‘60s—and not in a bad way.

Sunday Morning

The sister track to “Femme Fatale,” “Sunday Morning” shares the same dreamy quality—complete with celesta, an obscure cross between a xylophone and a piano, to boot. The song offers far more lyrical subtext than was typical for the time, portraying an uneasy, paranoid come-down from amphetamines and a reflection on wasted existence—all under the guise of a sleepy Sunday morning. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Venus in Furs

To me, “Venus in Furs” is the most baffling track on a record full of baffling tracks; there simply doesn’t exist a song that sounds quite like it. It’s the album’s strongest example of the aforementioned droning sound, sustained throughout by Cale’s electric viola—oscillating like a whip—and heightened by Tucker’s stripped-down percussion: pounding bass drum and tambourine. Inspired by a late-19^th-century novel of the same name, Reed sing-speaks a sadomasochistic poem that’s steeped in excess and bondage. It’s perverse, unsettling, and yet equally entrancing. Debauchery has never sounded so sweet.

All Tomorrow’s Parties

A bit more straightforward than the last entry, “All Tomorrow's Parties” is about exactly what it says: tomorrow’s party at Warhol’s studio, The Factory. Sung again by Nico—her vocals once again beautifully eerie and icy—the song is Reed’s veiled, poetic critique of the crowds attracted to Warhol’s parties. They are fashionable and eccentric—like Warhol himself—but act detached and superficial, clad in their useless decadence. Cale’s electric viola makes another appearance, this time accompanied by a metallic, droning piano—a sound achieved by inserting a chain of paper clips into the piano strings. Reed plucks away at his brash, distorted electric guitar in the background, eventually playing the track out. This masterpiece was also the first song the band released, issued as a single in July 1966.

Heroin

“Heroin” is far and away the best song on The Velvet Underground & Nico—and one of the greatest songs of all time. Reed wrote an early version of it back in 1964, with more rudimentary instrumentation—it sounds like a Woody Guthrie track—but the lyrics were nearly identical to those on the album version. Predictably, this song is about the drug heroin—Reed offering a graphic account of a user’s experience and emotional state. It begins iconically, with Reed plucking away at his guitar before Tucker’s pulsing bass drum beat kicks in, and continues for over seven minutes—trudging further into abstraction, lyrically and musically, as it unfolds.

To fully appreciate the gravity of this song, compare it to the top hits of 1964: “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You” by The Beatles, “Hello, Dolly!” by Louis Armstrong, “Oh, Pretty Woman” by Roy Orbison, and “I Get Around” by The Beach Boys—rounding out the top five.3 The song went so far against the grain that it’s shocking it ever saw the light of day. While many interpreted “Heroin” as glorifying drug use, its lyrics suggest otherwise—beginning with the drug’s pleasure before descending into psychosis and addiction. It’s a truly astonishing song, one that can’t be done justice except by listening to all seven minutes of its glory.

An Ever-Warmer Growing Reception

The Velvet Underground & Nico was released on March 12^th, 1967, to the widespread disinterest of both the public and critics. On the rare occasion it was even reviewed, like this one in The Village Voice, it was called “dull and repetitive” and “pretentious to the point of misery.”4 The album neither charted nor received much radio play—at times being banned outright—and only sold 30,000 copies in its first five years. But as musician Brian Eno famously said, “everyone who bought one of those 30,000 copies started a band.”5

This is where The Velvet Underground & Nico made its impact: by influencing the next generation of musicians. Artists such as David Bowie and Patti Smith—who collaborated directly with the Velvets—along with bands like Joy Division, R.E.M., and yes, Sonic Youth, all had their now distinct sounds shaped by this record. Funnily enough, on R.E.M.’s 1987 compilation album Dead Letter Office they cover several VU songs, including “There She Goes Again” and “Femme Fatale”—which, at the time, I didn’t realize were covers.

It took over a decade for The Velvet Underground & Nico to be reexamined by critics and appreciated for its truly groundbreaking nature—now widely considered an all-time classic. Since 1991, the album has sold over half a million copies6—that’s a lot more than 30,000—and in 2013, after Lou Reed’s passing, the album reached its highest spot on Billboard 200 chart yet: No. 129,7 a notable improvement over its original peak at No. 195

The Velvet Underground & Nico is a testament to triviality of first impressions—great art will come to be appreciated, eventually. Case in point, just two years ago, on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest albums of all time, it was ranked as the 23^rd greatest album of all time8—one spot ahead of its 1967 rival, that year’s best-selling album: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. That’s revenge—delivered in due time.

A pattern can be observed in most successful bands: they experience a period of creativity and individuality in their work, which—more often than not—coincides with their greatest commercial success. This is known as an imperial phase. The term was coined by Neil Tennant—the lead singer of the Pet Shop Boys—in 1988, in reference to his group’s own commercial and artistic achievements at the time: a peak they would never again reach.

Applying the imperial phase label to other famous bands yields predictable results: the Beach Boys in the mid- ‘60s; Pink Floyd in the ‘70s; Talking Heads in late ‘70s and early ‘80s; R.E.M. in the early to mid ‘90s; and Radiohead from late ‘90s through the late ‘00s. Of course, some bands can escape this label—specifically, those that broke up while still at their creative and commercial zeniths—the obvious examples being the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, the Police, and the Smiths. But all in all, the imperial phase is something that almost every well-known, long-lasting band experiences—it is, in many ways, inevitable: the result of an eventual decline in artistic momentum.

This article isn’t meant to be about the imperial phase, but I thought it prudent to mention before introducing a band that, in my opinion, represents its antithesis: Talk Talk.

For me, the story of Talk Talk is less about the actual happenings and more about the path taken—the stark juxtaposition between where they began and where they ended. Thus, in this article, I’ll stray from an in-depth analysis of their creative works, leaving that to sources at the end which, in my view, describe them better than I ever could. So, let’s begin…

Synth-pop Darlings

Talk Talk started life in 1981, formed in London by drummer Lee Harris, bassist Paul Webb, keyboardist Simon Brenner, and singer-songwriter Mark Hollis. In their early days, the band embraced the burgeoning New Romantic movement, drawing inspiration from groups like Duran Duran, A Flock of Seagulls, and Spandau Ballet. They released their first album, The Party’s Over, the following year and saw moderate success, with the record peaking at #22 on the UK charts.1 Led by their singles “Mirror Man,” the eponymous “Talk Talk,” and “Today,” the band established themselves as a capable synth-pop act on their very first outing—producing material that, while not extraordinary, was catchy enough for mainstream success and even earned modest praise from critics (see Neil Tennant’s review in Smash Hits below).

Upon revisiting The Party’s Over after listening to the band’s catalogue in its entirety, I found it as good—and perhaps even slightly better—than I remembered. It’s simply a fun listen, with a sound so ubiquitous to the era of its birth, and a lyric superficiality that goes hand in hand. In retrospect, the potential was all there: the outstanding musicianship and Hollis’ matchless vocals pointed towards a bright future for Talk Talk.

From here, Talk Talk’s story could have gone in an entirely different direction. They could’ve taken the easy route and—like so many other bands—fallen into a rut, where creative risk-taking is sacrificed for popular appeal and financial stability: the allure of fame and fortune. Instead, they began a reinvention—gradual at first, but one that would soon accelerate dramatically.

On the Road

Talk Talk’s second album, It’s My Life, was released in early 1984—with one of the most distinct covers of all time (see below): a Dali-esque interpretation of a John Everett Millais painting, courtesy of James Marsh. Inexplicably, the album charted poorly in the UK, reaching just #35.2 This was an anomaly, most likely due to poor marketing by their label, EMI. Elsewhere in Europe, however, the album performed remarkably well—peaking at #4 in Germany,3 #3 in the Netherlands,4 #2 in Switzerland,5 and even #42 in the US6—the band’s highest chart position stateside to date.

The album was led by the now-iconic eponymous single, “It’s My Life,” which reached #31 on the Billboard Hot 1007 and #1 on the Billboard Dance Club Chart,8 along with its second single, “Such a Shame,” which performed well in continental Europe—reaching #1 in Switzerland.9 While synths are still the dominant force on It’s My Life, a more layered soundscape has begun to emerge—piano, trumpet, and acoustic guitar add warmth and counteract the cold, precise synthesizers. Through this analog shift, Hollis’ jazz inspirations also began to surface—albeit only in the background, for now.

Overall, It’s My Life proved a decisive release for the band, signaling a shift in mindset—though one not fully realized. In an interview with the Dutch magazine Oor, Hollis laments, "There are an awful lot of synthesizers on the second album, that's true. But we use the synthesizer for organic sounds, not synthetic. … We can’t afford an orchestra, but we can use synthesizer in an economically responsible way and move in that direction. In fact, I really hate the instrument.”10 A blunt statement—if slightly disingenuous, given the sheer abundance of the very thing he claims to hate on the record. Nevertheless, the sentiment remains, as does his aspiration to break free.

Stepping Out

Talk Talk followed up It’s My Life with its most successful studio album: 1986’s The Colour of Spring. Hollis stayed true to his word—the synths were no more—and in their place stood the acoustic instruments that once lingered in the background of the previous record, along with some eclectic new additions: harp, saxophone, and harmonica—and some obscure ones: melodica, mellotron, variophon (look them up), and even a children’s choir— à la “Another Brick in the Wall.” And with that, Hollis finally achieved that “organic sound” he so greatly sought—and in spectacular fashion, too.

Buoyed by the hit singles “Life’s What You Make It,” “Living in Another World,” and “I Don’t Believe in You,” the band found a balance between commercial and artistic success—perhaps even unintentionally; they never worried about promoting their music—just making it—with Hollis even refusing to lip-sync in the “It’s My Life” music video, preferring instead to tape his mouth shut.

Revisiting the idea of an imperial phase, The Colour of Spring should’ve marked this stage for the band. But in many ways, its release became the moment Talk Talk’s artistic and commercial trajectories intersected—one line trending upward, the other trending sharply downward. Abnormal… very abnormal indeed.

The Colour of Spring charted well in the UK—especially compared to the disappointing performance of It’s My Life—reaching #8.11 However, the album did slightly poorer elsewhere, reaching just #58 on the Billboard Hot 200.12 So, while it expanded on the commercial success of its predecessor, it only did so marginally—but creatively, it did so in spades.

Some New Beginnings

So, back into the studio Talk Talk went. For nearly a year—led by Hollis—the band recorded countless hours of improvised material, often working in near-total darkness. What emerged was strange, to say the least. These weren’t songs in the traditional sense, but rather extended musical compositions, later edited and reassembled into an album. Representing by far the most radical departure of their career—and perhaps any band’s—Talk Talk released their fourth studio album, Spirit of Eden, in late 1988.

Immediately, there are about a thousand notable changes. Hollis’ vocals are now unintelligible—reminiscent of Michael Stipe’s on the early R.E.M. albums—and function more as another instrument: the lyrics irrelevant, pitch, tone, and his matchless delivery, everything. On the first several tracks, high-distortion electric guitar rules the show, oscillating between intense crests and silent troughs, filled in with Hollis’ roaring voice. The later tracks are more peaceful, allowing ambience to flow—anguished vocals leading the way, trailed by a thick tapestry of eclectic instrumentation carried over from The Colour of Spring. Its final track, “Wealth,” patiently dissolves into silence, with the notes of an organ fading for nearly a full minute.

One fascinating phenomenon of a would-be pop album with largely incoherent lyrics is that the tracks tend to blur together, making it a challenge to connect the music to individual songs—or even to recall their names, for that matter. So, when it came time to release a single—something the band had fought vehemently against—the label insisted, and they begrudgingly chose “I Believe in You.” Despite being shortened from 6:15 to 3:40 for radio play, the song—rather unsurprisingly—did not perform well, reaching a disappointing #85 on the UK charts.13 The album itself fared similarly poorly, peaking at #19 and spending just six weeks on the chart14—The Colour of Spring had stayed for 21.

Talk Talk lost many fans with Spirit of Eden, and critics were polarized—largely due to the album’s sheer strangeness. In its review, Q called it “the kind of record which encourages marketing men to commit suicide,”15 nevertheless awarding it four out of five stars. Unfazed, Hollis remarked in an interview with the magazine that he is motivated by the need to make great, increasingly personal music—not money. The commercial suicide would continue.

Commercial Suicide Continued

Talk Talk spent the months following Spirit of Eden’s release locked in a legal battle with their label, EMI, as they fought to break free from their contract. They were ultimately successful, signed with Polydor Records, and began work on their next record. By this point, the original quartet had dwindled to just two members: Hollis and Harris.

Released in September 1991—the same month as Nirvana’s Nevermind—Talk Talk’s fifth album, Laughing Stock, marked the completion of the band’s transformation—from Duran Duran wannabes to industry pariahs. The synth-pop era would end later that year, dethroned by grunge—though Talk Talk wouldn’t care, or probably even notice.

Laughing Stock saw the already minimal compositions from Spirit of Eden stripped to the bone—to the point of abstraction. The tracks no longer felt continuous, as they had on the last record; instead, long bouts of silence—sometimes occurring mid-track—came to dominate. Each instrument now stands alone, as if peaking out into the quiet, and Hollis’ vocals are distant and even less articulate, rendering them almost completely indiscernible.

All of this, as seen before, made for an unmarketable album. Imagine a track that goes still halfway through—like “Taphead”—being played on the radio. It’d never happen. So, despite three singles being released from Laughing Stock—“After the Flood,” “New Grass,” and “Ascension Day”—none of them cracked the UK Top 100. The album itself hardly did better, peaking at #26 and falling off the chart in just two weeks.16 Reviews were, once again, mixed: critics puzzled by the album. It received two out of five stars in Rolling Stone’s Album Guide the following year17 (see review below), which, remarkably, was the highest rating any Talk Talk album received. Ouch.

This proved to be the end of the road for Talk Talk. After the release of Laughing Stock, the band quietly disbanded—Hollis citing his desire to focus on his family. But this is not the end of the story.

Leave in Silence

After more than half a decade away from the music industry, Mark Hollis returned in 1997 and began work on what was intended to be the sixth Talk Talk studio album, titled Mountains of the Moon, thus fulfilling the band’s two-record contract with Polydor. But ultimately—perhaps owing to Hollis’ near-total control over the production process—the album was released as a solo project under his own name in early 1998.

This album is somber—and, as has been the case for nearly two decades, it moves even further from the band’s synth-pop roots. The tracks are almost entirely acoustic, the vocals clearer, and the structure more linear than on either of Talk Talk’s last two albums. These aren’t experimental compositions, but rather quiet meditations—resigned in tone. The whole record feels like one long ending: the listener waits for it, is teased by it—and finally after 47 minutes and eight tracks, it arrives.

To state the obvious, Mark Hollis was not a hit. The album reached just #53 on UK chart before dropping off entirely the following week.18 No singles were released, and Hollis didn’t perform live, saying, “There won't be any gig, not even at home in the living room.”19 And as tone of his compositions hinted, this would be his final album. Talk Talk made a flashy entrance in 1982—but in 1998, Hollis left in silence.

A Second Glance

Mark Hollis passed away from cancer on February 25^th, 2019, at the age of 64—six years ago today. Two decades removed from the music industry, he left this world with nothing left to prove—to himself or anyone else. If you listen to his eponymous album—the only solo effort of his career—it sounds like a valediction. As the music fades away, just like its composer, you’re left to reflect. And in my opinion, never has so much been done with so little.

Talk Talk has received renewed attention since their disbandment over three decades ago. Their most commercially unsuccessful works—Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock—are now regarded as not only their best, but as some of the greatest albums of all time. The band is often credited with almost singlehandedly shaping an entirely new musical genre: post-rock.

On the community-driven website RateYourMusic, Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock receive ratings of 4.08 and 4.13 out of 5, respectively, and are ranked as the second- and fifth-greatest albums of 1988 and 1991.20 And in 2013, NME ranked Spirit of Eden the 95^th best album of all time.21 Remarkably, each of Talk Talk’s albums is rated higher than the one before it (see below)—an almost unheard-of feat.

Truth be told, prior to stumbling upon this website, I had only known Talk Talk for their first two albums—and mostly for two of their singles: “Talk Talk” and “It’s My Life.” So I was bewildered, to say the least, when I finally saw this table. Why did these synth-brats have not just one, but two of the highest-rated albums of all time? So, I decided to give the band’s last three albums a listen—and… they’re all good. Very good. I’ve relistened to them—Laughing Stock in particular—many times since.

A Final Word

Something must be addressed about Talk Talk—and their fans: there’s an undeniable air of pretentiousness in how both the band’s music and career are viewed. Case in point: the band’s first two albums—The Party’s Over and It’s My Life—are objectively strong synth-pop records—records that actually contain songs, not extended jam sessions—yet they receive barely any love. Granted, the band’s later works are undeniably more innovative and nuanced, but that doesn’t make what came before poor in quality—just because it was mainstream. Alas, Hollis himself—if he were still alive—would probably disagree with this.

Mark Hollis was many things: a visionary, a minimalist, an ardent non-conformist—but he was also something of a snob, often viewing the work of other artists—especially those in synth-pop—as innately inferior to his own, as if unaware of where his own career began. He also had a habit of name-dropping his influences in interviews: Satie, Bartók, Debussy, and the like—and in that same Q interview referenced earlier, he even grew combative when the interviewer remarked that Spirit of Eden makes for great background music (which it does), saying: “You should never listen to music as background music. Ever.”22 Thanks for the advice, Mark.

This pretentiousness is disappointing—slightly diminishing the mystique of the band’s career—but it doesn’t need to be fueled. One benefit of starting out as a band that made good music—and only improved from there—is that there’s no right or wrong place to begin listening. Talk Talk made great music from beginning to end—and really, it was only the audience that came and left, then returned, after the party was already over.

There’s something noble about sticking to your principles through thick and thin—abandoning wealth and the life of pop stars to focus on what truly mattered: family and, of course, making great music. Incredibly unique, high-quality music that never got the respect it deserved. Most bands make music for others. Talk Talk? They made music for themselves.

Notable Reviews:

The Party’s Over Review:

"One sad mood permeates the whole LP as though they're compensating for the fact that they'd like to say something important but can't think of anything to say. Still, attractive tunes and synthesizer phrases plus sliding bass-playing prosper in the big, careful production. If only they'd cheered up, the part[y] might have been much more enjoyable."

- Neil Tennant, Smash Hits23

Spirit of Eden Review:

“Talk Talk’s fourth LP is the kind of record which encourages marketing men to commit suicide. Mark Hollis’s outfit are nicely poised for major success this time around after spending the best part of a decade gradually building up a ground swell of support for their quirky, sophisticated pop. 1986’s The Colour Of Spring had the obligatory hit single in the shape of Life’s What You Make It and contrived to go gold on Britain while expanding their substantial European following. But two years later Mark Hollis has designed a record whose six songs flow into one another like one long mood piece without a hint of a single and with a peculiarly old world feel to the subdued orchestral mutterings that accompany his faltering high-pitched musings.

“Spirit Of Eden strives for a totality of mood in the manner of Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, or Neil Young’s On The Beach. Like the Young LP, these six songs are largely downbeat and drowned in introspection. Fragments of keyboard lines or sudden bursts from a guitar or an oboe break through the contemplative calm that suffuses Hollis’s brave new world while his vocals barely pick out the lyrics, occasional phrases drifting into earshot like the delayed echo of a cricket ball against bat somewhere in the hazy distance.

“Apparently these songs touch on everything from paradise to heroin addiction yet all remain within the record’s overall mood of calm won from the storm. If Spirit Of Eden often recalls the pastoral epics of the early 70’s, it has a range, ambition and self-sufficiency that enables Hollis and co to step out of time and into their own. No hit singles then but a brave record that is not afraid to follow its own muse and damn the consequences.”

- Mark Cooper, Q24

Talk Talk Catalogue Review:

“Good bands usually improve over time, while bad bands generally just fall apart. But Talk Talk took a different approach with its musical growth; instead of getting better or worse, this band simply grew more pretentious with each passing year. On “Talk Talk,” from the Talk Talk EP (which was absorbed into The Party’s Over), the group sounds like an artier Duran Duran, while It’s My Life finds it bumbling along like an ersatz Japan, all exotic color and tremulous vocal mannerisms. Finally, by Spirit of Eden, Mark Hollis’s Pete Townshend-on-Dramamine vocals have been pushed aside by the band’s pointless noodling.”

- J.D. Considine, Rolling Stone25

Album Analyses

• The Party’s Over (1982)

• It’s My Life (1984)

• The Colour of Spring (1986)

• Spirit of Eden (1988)

• Laughing Stock (1991) & Mark Hollis (1998)