1984 album in review: U2 -- The Unforgettable Fire

It was all because of a girl I met...

That's how I became a U2 fan. To be clear, that's how I learned about the very existence of U2.

In the summer of 1985, almost a full year after The Unforgettable Fire's release, I attended a summer camp at Olivet College. This camp was patterned after Boys or Girls State, but was sort of a low-rent version of that. We were supposed to learn about how the legislative and executive branches of government ran by participating in mock campaigns and elections--or at least I think. I really don't remember much of anything we did at this camp, but I do remember this particular girl. She liked me, I liked her (probably because she liked me) and the most memorable parts of this summer camp were the evening dances in the Olivet cafeteria, hanging out with this girl (I'll call her "Janine"--not her real name), and her telling me about this band called U2 that her college-age brother hipped her to.

When the camp ended--which had to have been late June--Julie and I maintained contact by writing letters. We must have exchanged letters every week throughout the rest of that summer. Knowing that she liked U2, I bought her some U2 badges that I found at the oft-frequented Camelot Music at Saginaw's Fashion Square Mall. I gave them to her when we met up again in the late summer, and she seemed quite appreciative.

It was likely the autumn of 1985 that I finally decided to investigate U2 myself. I bought Under a Blood Red Sky and a little while later, The Unforgettable Fire. Meanwhile, as all teenage summer romances go, it slowly fizzled out between Janine and I. Distance and senior year of high school took their toll, but the gift of U2 that Janine gave me grew and blossomed.

As I mentioned, Under a Blood Sky, the live EP released in 1983, was my first U2 experience. It's hard to believe now, but at that time U2 seemed mysterious and incredibly foreign to me. A band from Ireland? That seemed so exotic! It's important for me to mention that I didn't have MTV at this point, so I wouldn't have seen U2 there. I also don't recall ever seeing any U2 videos anywhere else, and of course their music was not on the radio in Michigan's Thumb region--certainly not on any radio stations I listened to. The Thumb was a radio desert in the 1980s. There were no college stations nor alternative stations. In fact, I don't think "alternative radio" as a concept was even invented until the 1990s.

To indicate how sheltered I was from a musical standpoint in 1985, Under a Blood Red Sky was probably the rawest record I'd ever heard. Even though nobody would ever classify U2 as punk, it was what I imagined punk to sound like. It was aggressive, political, and unadorned. 

So imagine my surprise when I got my hands on The Unforgettable Fire. Outside of "Pride (In the Name of Love)," which is probably the most conventionally structured and produced song on the album, the album is muted and murky. It sounds like it could have been recorded in the ghostly castle pictured on the record sleeve, and then transmitted via a shaky telephone connection to Island Records headquarters, where it was re-recorded on a few Edison cylinders. To call The Unforgettable Fire "atmospheric" is an understatement.

But it was for those reasons--and the ghostly cover that appeared to have been captured with a daguerreotype or at best an 1890s Kodak brownie camera--that I was quickly obsessed with the album. The opening track, "A Sort of Homecoming," brought the murk in right away and conjured images of a long journey undertaken in a grey, overcast, wintery landscape. 

If I am in a particularly vulnerable state of mind, as I have been quite often recently, "Pride (In the Name of Love)"'s heartfelt salute to Martin Luther King, Jr. can still move me to tears--as it did last week when I listened to it one dark morning on the way to work.

The jittery "Wire" is a song I've always liked, but is not one that seems to get much attention. The lyrics might be a bit tossed off, but it's musically propulsive.

The Unforgettable Fire is, of course, not above criticism. There are several songs that are underbaked, like "Promenade" and "Elvis Presley and America" (which couldn't possibly sound any farther removed from the Hillbilly Cat or the United States). These songs coast by on mood, murk, and atmospherics.

The title track ("The Unforgettable Fire") and "Bad" are the two other songs that I still adore to this day. I spent hours trying to transcribe the lyrics to "Bad" (in the days before one could simply look up lyrics online).

Listen, I know that shitting on U2 is particular popular these days, and has probably been popular since the '80s, but I still love this band and don't give a goddamned what anybody else thinks. The Unforgettable Fire, as a moody if flawed listening experience, moves me as much now as it did in 1985.

Election dread

I have been dreading the election for months, and it gets worse and worse as we get closer. Every morning I wake up, after a few minutes of refreshing thought, the dark cloud of the election enters my mind.

There is a good possibility that Trump will win, and I'm trying to mentally prepare for that result. 

Can I be frank? What the hell is wrong with Americans? (Specifically, American voters). How is it possible that this election, if one believes the polls, is THIS close? 

For as long as I live, I will never understand Trump's appeal. Have Americans really become this nihilistic? This cynical? This callous? These are the only reasons I can fathom that explain Trump's continued popularity. It makes me sad about the state of this nation. (Having written this, I'm not naive enough to believe the United States was pure until Trump entered the picture in 2016. Our history is scarred with horrors, and we've had our share of terrible leaders before Trump).

This is just something I had to get off my chest. I've been avoiding writing about politics for many months, but this existential dread has been weighing on me for a long time. I just have avoided directly addressing it until now.

1984 album in review: Ratt -- Out of the Cellar

This is an album I'm sure my handful of readers out there weren't expecting, and in fairness, it wasn't even on my radar until very recently. To go a step further, I have a list of 30 albums from 1984 from which I'm working, and Out of the Cellar isn't on that list.

So, why, you may be asking, am I writing about Out of the Cellar? The reasons are as follows: 

Several years ago, after dropping my older son off at his fencing class, I had the radio on and Ratt's big hit "Round and Round" came on. I was surprised that not only did I know all (or most) of the lyrics, but I was actually enjoying the song.

"Round and Round" came up in a conversation I had and I was happy to learn the person I was talking to also a champion of "Round and Round." Underneath the glam metal dressing, the song is simply a killer pop tune with a catchy chorus. If you hear this song on the radio, it's an immediate earworm.

The third reason I decided to discuss this album is that glam metal was enormous in the '80s, and though I think a lot of it is crap, there are a few albums that have held up (at least to some degree) over the years. Out of the Cellar is one of those records. 

Okay, now here's where I talk about ways in which the album has not aged well. Would you like a side order of misogyny with your serving of shredding guitar solos and pop metal choruses? Comin' right up! "She Wants Money" finds our horndog protagonist bringing home a young hottie only to discover she's a...sex worker, perhaps? Or maybe she's just a "material girl" who is not willing to hook up with this guy unless he has some dough, and as he explains to the listener, he has none. So the girl is gone for greener pastures.

In "Scene of the Crime," our guy arrives at  his girlfriend's house only to discover the "cold-hearted [b-word]" is cheating on him. Needless to say, he is none too thrilled about this development and there is a threat of violence. So, yeah, a bit problematic.

What saves these songs is they are catchy as all get out and one can easily listen to them and enjoy them without paying any attention to the lyrics...but maybe this is only the case if one is a slightly nostalgic Gen Xer and not someone younger. I'm not sure how millennials or Gen Zers would respond to Ratt. I suspect they'd find the music anachronistic.

So I'm talking about feeling nostalgic about this album. The truth is, I didn't like Ratt back in the '80s. I thought they were hopelessly cheesy, though clearly "Round and Round" burrowed into my brain and never left. After the dust has settled forty years later, I have an oddly warm feeling for the era of '80s glam metal and I find this album to be the best and most enduring representation of that musical niche.

The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal

On Friday, I binge-watched the Amazon Prime four-part, four plus hour documentary, The Tragically Hip: No Dress Rehearsal. I fully intended on watching maybe just one or two episodes on Friday (the day it dropped), and saving the final two episodes for later...but who was I kidding? I would also like to say I watched all four episodes without getting deeply emotional and tearing up every ten minutes...but--once again--who am I kidding?

I learned a lot about the band that I didn't know, probably because the Hip have been so private over the years. A couple things stand out:

When Gord Downie insisted on being the sole lyricist, the other guys were way more put-out by it than I ever knew. It sounds like it took them a while to get over that. 

The band went through a good decade-plus (roughly 2000-2012) in which they weren't getting along and were close to breaking up. It makes sense that they had rough patches, but as I said, they have always been so guarded that I (and probably others) assumed they always got along just fine.

I had gone through a period recently of not listening to the Hip that often. For whatever reason, I just hadn't been in the mood. This documentary, however, has made me fall in love with the band all over again. I plan on resurrecting my "Hip album review" series which stalled out on Fully Completely. (The Day For Night album is so daunting that I put it off for a long time. Now, however, it's time to tackle it).

I'm also looking forward to the upcoming Tragically Hip coffee table book. I initially balked at the price ($60ish), but after hearing more about it, I think I'll have to add it to my collection.

Let the Hipaissance continue!

Vacation reading: Chris Stein's Under a Rock

One of the best aspects of a relaxing vacation is that I get to catch up on reading. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to read during the daytime in a screened-in porch with Lake Superior as my "front yard." It beats the hell out of not getting to the book until 10 PM after eight hours of work and often falling asleep less than half an hour after cracking the book open.

Weeks ago, I started reading Chris Stein's Under a Rock--his memoir of his life before, during, and after Blondie (the band). It was a book that I'd pick up in the late evenings and almost immediately crash and burn before I made it more than about 15 minutes. I am happy to report that I shot through 184 pages in three days. I read on the porch of this cottage in Copper Harbor and I read on our 7 1/2 hours on the ferry to and from Isle Royale.

The meandering storytelling style was a major part of my inability to get into Chris Stein's memoir. The book could have easily been titled, Everything That Ever Happened to Me in My Life: No Matter How Inconsequential. Another title could have been Crazy Stuff That Happened in New York City: 1965-2023. I'm not sure if Stein had a editor--I assume he did--though I'm not sure what the editor was doing. There are so many stories and anecdotes, some relevant and fascinating, but many others that just don't add much to the narrative. To make matters worse, the chronology is often confusing and muddled.

All that said, Chris Stein is a musician and not necessarily a book writer, so I'll give him a pass. Once I finally had a long and relaxing time to devote to the book, I enjoyed reading it. There was also something funny and perverse reading about illicit escapades in seedy 1970s/1980s New York City while I was in a cottage in the Upper Peninsula feeling the breeze blow in from Lake Superior. It was like existing simultaneously in two disparate worlds.

1984 album in review: Prince & the Revolution -- Purple Rain

I initially thought that I would listen to Prince & the Revolution's Purple Rain, jot down my observations, and then write about the album (like a real record review). However, I have heard this album so many times and have such a deep connection to it, that I decided this probably wasn't necessary. For this post, I will simply write about my personal experience with the album. And really, who needs yet another review of Purple Rain, anyway?

In late spring of 1984--I can't remember the month, but it must have been either late May or early June because I swear I was still in school--I turned on the tiny black & white television in my room to an afternoon music video show. I don't remember what this show was called or what channel it was on, but it was about a half-hour long. It was on this show that I first saw the video for Purple Rain's leadoff single, "When Doves Cry." All these years later, it's hard to remember exactly what I felt upon hearing this song and seeing this video, but I know I was immediately drawn to it. I was only 16 and my experience with music was fairly limited. The stark, bass-less, electro psych funk of Prince was surely a revelation. 

And then there was the actual music video, which I rewatched it to jar my memory: Double doors open to reveal a large dark room with doves fluttering in the air and flowers strewn on the floor. Further into the room, we see an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. A nude, bathing Prince is in the tub. He lifts himself up, turns towards the camera, and extends his arm towards the viewer. He seems anguished. Is he pleading? Is he introducing himself to the world in the most Princely manner imaginable?

The video continues with clips from the upcoming Purple Rain film, and I was intrigued by that. Was the movie autobiographical? It certainly looked tense and dramatic.

I was further won over by the concluding shots of Prince & the Revolution "performing" in a completely white studio space. Their elaborate, brightly-colored neo-psychedelic, neo-Victorian clothing was like nothing I'd seen before outside of The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper uniforms. Prince was a captivating front man and the two women--who I would later learn were Wendy and Lisa--were beautiful with a hint of danger. I was sold on the whole vibe the band presented.

In July 1984, I traveled to Minneapolis with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. My Uncle Jim, in his job with the Keweenaw Ojibwa community, frequently made business trips on their behalf to the Twin Cities. I was the lucky beneficiary of the ones that occurred in the summer. Almost every summer, I'd visit my U.P. relatives and my stays were scheduled by them to coincide with the Minneapolis trips. 

One of our days in Minneapolis, we all went to the newly opened downtown City Center shopping mall. It was there that I bought my vinyl copy of Purple Rain. If I remember correctly, the record store had a prominent display of the album and maybe even a lifesize cutout of Prince. The Purple Rain buzz was palpable. In a city that had an active music scene, this was its pinnacle moment. This was the moment in which Minneapolis was finally in the national spotlight, perhaps for the first time since Mary Richards triumphantly hurled her hat in the air at Nicolet Mall in the opening credit sequence of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

When we returned to my aunt and uncle's house from Minneapolis, I had to return home shortly thereafter. And after I returned home, it was off to the Michigan State University campus for a high school summer camp. The upshot of this is that I had no time to spin Purple Rain and it remained sealed, likely propped up next to my dinky Emerson stereo.

Here's the thing about that summer camp: it further intensified my Purple Rain fever. This two-week summer camp was for science and art-inclined kids. I believe the goal was to show how art and science could complement each other. But to be perfectly honest, I don't remember much of anything we were supposed to have learned from an academic standpoint. What I most remember are the nightly dances we had in the McDonel Hall Kiva. This summer camp, in their ultimate coolness, hired a DJ to spin records at these dances. "Let's Go Crazy" is the song I remember the most. I have an image in my head of a group of us kids standing in a circle in the darkened kiva, Prince intoning in his preacher-like voice, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life..." As we listened to Prince's sermon, our anticipation for the song intensified and we were ready to explode as soon as the drum beat kicked in...and explode we did.

The kids I met at this summer camp were the coolest kids I'd ever known. They were kids who had many of the same interests and outlook that I had. I had spent most of my childhood and early teen years believing I was out of step with everyone else, but these kids made me feel much less alone. I discovered there were other kids out there who were similar to me, who accepted me, and were also cool! They were smart, artistic, and stylish--but stylish in their own unique ways. And we all loved Prince and Purple Rain. 

Purple Rain, almost the entire album, became the unofficial theme music of my summer camp experience. When I think of summer 1984, Purple Rain is the music I most closely associate with that time. Even when I listen to the album in 2024, it is inextricably linked to my memories of '84. I am reminded of my trip to Minneapolis, the Detroit Tigers' summer-long quest for the World Series championship, and the summer camp that took place from August 5-18 with all that entailed (cool kids, dances, cute girls, and some but not much learning). Purple Rain just might be the most consequential and important music of my life.

I Finally Watch Blue Velvet All the Way Through: Instant Reactions Edition

So, after years of only seeing dribs and drabs of David Lynch's Blue Velvet over the years, I finally watched the whole movie on Tubi. Before I have my opinions skewed and altered by whatever film podcast I listen to or film review I read, here are my instant, unvarnished reactions.

This film fits perfectly in the noir tradition. There's the young male protagonist (Kyle MacLachlan) who is in over his head, the femme fatale (Isabella Rossellini) with secrets, plenty of bad guys headed by one major bad guy (Dennis Hopper), and an ingenue (Laura Dern) to offer some contrast to the femme fatale. This being a Lynch movie, however, there's plenty of weird shit one would never see in any golden era noir. This is a noir with avant garde sensibilities.

It was never entirely clear to me what nefarious activities Frank Booth (Hopper) was up to, other than it involved a shady cop (or cops). It is abundantly clear, though, that Frank Booth is one of the scariest and most disturbing villains to ever appear on screen. 

The movie's most indelible and most "meme-able" image is Booth breathing in that plastic mask. Am I naive in that I don't know what he hell, other than carbon dioxide, he was breathing into his lungs? It certainly makes for a dark, twisted image. [Edit: it's amyl nitrite. I probably should have guessed that].

Did Dorothy (Rossellini) really enjoy being hit? Or was her self-worth lowered by her circumstances to such a degree that she thought it was what she deserved? In modern terminology, we might say she was a victim of toxic masculinity.

The dialogue in the movie is stilted and generally unrealistic, but in that it's similar to many 1940s noirs. That might have been a choice by Lynch?

It's easy to see a direct line from Blue Velvet to Twin Peaks.

I, er, saw a lot more Isabella Rossellini than I expected. I hope she was okay with doing all those nude scenes, particularly the one at the Williams' house. All I could think was, "find some clothes for her! She's probably freezing!"

Nobody uses industrial noises better than Lynch. They are in this, The Elephant Man (evoking dark, dangerous Victorian London) and Eraserhead (lending unease to that whole film).

What in the name of pancake makeup hell was going on with Dean Stockwell's character? The whole "beer party scene" was strange, even by Lynchian standards.

My favorite line in the movie (uttered by Frank Booth to Jeffrey (MacLachlan)), "Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!"

That's all I have for now. Off to find out how I misinterpreted the movie.