It’s called the Seinfeld effect: when the originators of a genre of television or other art feel lacklustre because everything they did right has been copied to the point of cliché. Nowhere is this truer than in music with its wave after wave of revivals and retro-obsessions. Yet, some albums manage to defy the curse of becoming influential. Piqued by the startling suggestion that our parents might have decent music taste, The Strand decided to riffle through their music collections and rehabilitate some of the albums that, despite time and imitation, have remained great pieces of art.
Bruce Springsteen – Born in The USA
Born In The USA is probably the pinnacle of dad rock, but don’t let the guitar pathos and ‘80s synths fool you. At its heart, it is an attempt to reconcile patriotism with the sense that something is fundamentally broken in America. You might remember “Dancing In The Dark” from the time your uncle got drunk and sung it on top of your living room couch. But stripped of the Courtney Cox video and fatherly nostalgia, it is a poignant exploration of a man using sexual desire as a (failed) refugee from alienation and economic malaise; it could even be read as a critique of pop’s sex-fixation as escapist. The album’s strength is the way that it manages to combine this social critique with elating, cathartic rock music.
Certainly, The Boss’ short story-like songs focus on a specific experience—being white, male, heterosexual, and working-class. Springsteen was criticized for moving away from folk and burying his politics in commercially-pleasing pop rock. But in the way he perfects the classic rock formula on songs like “Glory Days” or “Born In The USA,” you could almost say Springsteen adopted the voice of the working class in not just content, but form. At times, the album sounds more like an expertly executed piece of craftsmanship than a piece of art.
The The – Dusk
Dusk opens with the sound of a fireplace and a half-sung, half-recited rant about desire before launching into a cavalcade of keyboard-driven choruses and titles like “Dogs of Lust” and “Slow Emotion Replay.” One-man-band Matt Johnson blends post-punk, funk rhythms, soul-like crooning, and pop melodies into something that seems too big and bloated to possibly work. Still, it does. From the infectiousness of The Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr’s licks to Johnson’s exploration of the link between artist and listener on “Helpline Operator,” The The’s charm is undeniable. Dusk owes a lot of this peculiar success to its melodies. Its primary genius is the effortless way it masters the difficult balance between self-awareness and earnestness that is so essential to good pop. When Johnson sings “Love, love, love/Is stronger than death,” he does so both with a glint in the eye and the conviction that, for him, it is not a trite cliché, but something true and important.
Run-D.M.C. – Run-D.M.C.
This is the album that, according to legend, first embraced the street look, started the diss track, and moved hip-hop away from funk-inspired party anthems towards the aggressive and often political rap of the ‘80s and ‘90s. Even today, there is tremendous urgency and power behind DJ Run and D.M.C.’s rapping, full of staccato and eschewing the one-rapper-per-verse structure in favour of an anarchistic free-for-all. The instrumentation is especially unparalleled, from the soaring guitar samples to songs like “Sucker MC’s,” which feature only harsh drum machines and a few scratches that sound less like a sonic backdrop than a third rapper competing for attention. Even with all of those elements, Run-D.M.C. also sounds dated—and joyfully so. Compared to modern hip-hop, DJ Run and D.M.C. repping their friend and DJ on “Jam Master Jay” or D.M.C. bragging about attending St. John’s University on “Sucker MC’s” seems positively dorky. The optimism that concludes the political rant “It’s Like That” or the way the rappers swap lines, as if they were too enthused by their rhymes to wait for their own verses, all suggest a vision of rap as something not only revolutionary, political, and serious, but also a lot of fun.
Lucinda Williams – Car Wheels On A Gravel Road
Wait, country? While it may be the target of cheap jokes and the “but” to people’s “I listen to all types of music,” Lucinda William’s country sounds more like The Clash than Brad Paisley. It is simple and often abrasive, with unpolished production that emphasizes Williams’ hoarse yet compelling voice. In fact, the more fitting reference for Williams is perhaps William Faulkner. Punk-like guitar riffs lay the base for stream-of-consciousness observations of the American South. In her harsh realism—both emotional and societal—and her fondness for the people and country she critiques, Williams is the anti-thesis to the mythology and the hunting-and-beer masculinity of country pop. While titles like “2 Kool 2 Be 4-Gotten” seem dated at first, after a few listens, the evocations of longing for something that rises above the temporariness of crumbling small-town Louisiana feels more like vicious humour. The kitsch Williams uses in her writing is a poetic self-sabotage. Indeed, “Car Wheels On A Gravel Road” is not a timeless album, but time-full—saturated and drenched in a time just as it is in place and feeling.
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