(The second of my top ten albums from adolescence.)

Meddle is a relatively obscure slice of psychedelic genius which I first played on my crappy bedside turntable after a particularly eventful evening during my senior year of high school, and revisited 20 years later as post-game music for marital happy hour, which circularity led me to reflect on how even when we change we remain exactly the same, and prompted me to share five musical bites from past and present in this post comprised of one tremendously long sentence, starting with:

(1) the ominous, throbbing bass line of “One of These Days” (holy crap– listen to it live!), a largely instrumental track which unravels one’s awareness in ways that are strangely pleasant when your consciousness is stable but but downright perilous when it’s not —  when the bass hit heavy reverb that first night I was gripped by panic, certain that a helicopter was landing on the roof above my bedroom, which was merely a prelude to the complete freak-out induced by what sounded like someone/something monstrous pounding on the door and threatening murder in a diabolically distorted voice (one of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces), which is truly terrifying when you’re alone in the middle of the night but makes for good bonding with friends when you swap stories the day after (in those pre-google days, one of my peeps told me the voice said one of these days, I’m going to dance with the evil [eagle?] king, which might be the better lyric) …

… but that’s not the kind of bonding I wanted for marital happy hour, so I saved that track for solo rides in the car the next day and began the playlist with the profound quietude of “A Pillow of Winds” (2), which, as it turned out, perfectly narrated the closing minutes of that evening (sleepytime when I lie/ with my love by my side/ and she’s breathing low/ and the candle dies), thus ushering in a blessed state of tranquility (the rarest of commodities in a household of nine) …

… seamlessly followed by (3) the transcendent crescendos of “Fearless” spiraling like the florid mandalas that appeared on the blank wall of my high school bedroom way back when, which formed a magical cloudland of existence until (4) the song segued into a chant version of You’ll Never Walk Alone performed by Liverpool lads that nonetheless sounds uncannily like the Bedouin-esque dudes singing the tone sequence in Close Encounters (which, amazingly enough, I can’t find on YouTube), thus returning me to full freak-out mode…

… which immediately dissolved upon the beginning notes of “San Tropez,” a loping beachside tune that, in context, is bewildering at best, so in hopes of avoiding any degree of buzzkill I left the track off the happy hour playlist (although it does feature the line I reach for a peach, which begs mention of “monkey grabs a peach,” which would’ve been appropriate enough) and went straight to “Seamus” (5) which played as I drifted into sweet unconsciousness around midnight, only to be jarred awake seconds later by a barking dog, which I thought was the beagle owned by our back-fence neighbors that tends to howl during romantic interludes in the most infuriating and hilarious ways, but actually turned out to be an unremembered part of the track, thus providing the surreal moment needed to make the past/present circle complete  and conclude this tangle of a post — and if such tangling isn’t your cup of tea, I suggest you avoid this album, especially side 2 (which is one long convoluted track featuring a crisp sonar-like ping that exactly echoes Reed’s Blackberry ringtone, but that’s another story).

I opted out of buying concert tickets for several reasons: they were pricey, and the show was on a very inconvenient date, and I figured the venue in Orem would surely be spilling over with college-age johnny-come-latelys, and that the band would surely go heavy on tracks from their Grammy-winning new album, which is good but not good enough to lure me out from under my rock under such circumstances. So I stayed home, and rode the evening out with only mild reservations — until a few days later, when I was reading reviews online and bumped into the set list. Which included half the tracks from Funeral. Realizing I’d missed a truly transcendent emotional/spiritual/aesthetic experience, I went out, and wept bitterly.

Speaking of bitter weeping: Funeral was written and recorded during a time when band members were mourning the death of several loved ones. Fittingly enough, I found my way into its depths  during a protracted season of pain, playing it on continuous loop throughout a particularly bleak winter;  I replay it at length each time the snow returns with its blanketing defeat. But it’s not one of those albums I reach for when I want/need to wallow in melancholy (e.g. Unknown Pleasures) — rather than indulging low mood, the music comforts me as it both confirms and challenges the darkness. A rare and delicate balance, like the blend of fledgling hope and resigned wisdom which permeates the lyrics.

And so, without further ado, five sublime bites (four of which played onstage last week, thus clinching my everlasting regret):

1. Neighborhood #1: Tunnels

The first track, and perhaps my favorite.  Captures the ineffable loneliness and longing of adolescence (does it ever go away?) so keenly that I ache with each listen. I especially love the shivery xylophone-driven emotion (as the day grows dim/I hear you sing a golden hymn), and the heady second verse/first chorus (then our skin gets thicker/from living out in the snow – the video has an awesome shot of Regine Chassagne pounding away). But my favorite spot, the one I have to close my eyes for every time, comes at 2:47, as Win’s reverie intensifies and his voice ascends and the backup vocal descends in a moment of transcendent sadness.

2. Neighborhood #3: Power Out

A measured, melodic eruption of adolescent rage  (does it ever go away?), so earnest it hurts. Highly therapeutic when played in an enclosed area at high volume. Hard to pick one bite to highlight, but I’m gonna go with the ripping chord change at 2:02 (kids are dying out in the snow/look at ‘em go, look at ‘em go). Judging from YouTube evidence, the live track is nothing short of explosive, even to the point of inducing seizures in one of the percussionists. Recent performances have featured altered lyrics (ice is covering up my parents’ eyes) and a truly mind-blowing segue, usually into Rebellion/Lies, although at last week’s show they paired this track with ‘Tunnels.’ Self-pity abounds.

3. Crown of Love

A swelling, cresting wave of tender-aged romance and regret (does it ever go away?). Strings you up between transience and permanence (They say it fades if you let it/Love was made to forget it) and socks you with tortuous devotion (I carved your name/across my eyelids). Although more sophisticated than the daydream love of “Tunnels,” the earnest  romantic yearning here makes otherwise bombastic lyrics (your name is the only word that I can say!) ring absolutely true. Fave moment: the final, wrenching “please forgive me” (3:15), which kills me every time.

4. Wake Up

A bona fide rock anthem (a la David Bowie, who, on occasion, sings along) lamenting how the heart calcifies with age.  First heard it in the car, driving to my psychiatrist’s office in East Millcreek on a very dreary January afternoon. I wasn’t feeling much of anything those days — the major depressive episode had moved past despair into near-catatonia — but as this track hit its climax I had the sudden, blessed realization that I was still alive, and in good company.  We’re just a million little gods causing rainstorms/turning every good thing to rust/I guess we’ll just have to adjust… The energy is palpable even in sanitized digital form; I can only imagine what filled the room during this amazing impromptu set.

5. And finally: Rebellion (Lies)

The penultimate track, played early in the Orem set, which seems odd– maybe I’m just used to hearing it as a near-finale? With a sensual edge rare for Arcade Fire, it’s easily the sexiest song on the album — not just the lyrics (Come on baby, in our dreams/we can live our misbehavior) but the whole pulsing vibe. Without even trying, the song simultaneously evokes both childhood and adulthood (come and find your lovers underneath the covers/hiding from your brothers underneath the covers) through ageless themes of trust and betrayal. Favorite part: the last verse’s but we know it’s just a lie, a coming-of-age declaration which rolls off Win’s tongue with no uncertain triumph.

In fact, “no uncertain triumph” is the perfect three-word summary for Funeral. “We should all count ourselves very very lucky to be alive at this very specific point in time to be able to hear it,” said one fan in a YouTube thread. Lucky, indeed.

“Where’d Jesus go?” My six-year-old son, Sam, pointed at the bare wall behind the couch, where a framed print of Del Parson’s Christ in Red Robe used to hang.

“I put the picture away to keep it safe,” I explained. “When I was painting the walls I had to take all the pictures down, remember?”

“But that was a long time ago,” Sam reminded me. “You’re done painting. You should put it back up.”

I nodded and smiled uneasily, glad Sam missed the familiar face on the wall, yet all too aware that I did not. The gold-framed print waited at the back of my closet, where I’d stowed it a few months before. At the time I called it a practical decision—there are few places in my house where anything breakable is safe—but I couldn’t deny that picking such a dark, cramped storage location carried metaphorical weight.

I’d bought the print from the BYU bookstore (natch) not long after Reed and I married. The blank white walls of our new life and our new apartment needed a guidepost, an unambiguous mark of identity, a reminder of the foundation supporting our fledgling family. The Parson print seemed perfect. I remembered other images of the Savior from my Greek Orthodox childhood: the serene Christ-child on Mary’s lap, halo glowing with Byzantine gold leaf, looking straight ahead with one hand beckoning; the earth-toned, skeletal, agonized Christ hanging in the nave. And later, after I was baptized a Latter-day Saint, the strangely feminine doe-eyed, sable-haired Jesus that looked plaintively heavenward from behind the Primary piano. Each held meaning for me. But this bold image wrought by Parson was the one the Church had recently chosen as a trademark of sorts, and I trusted its solid, formal Mormonness, its Jesus-as-sea-captain presence, to guide me safely forward.

The choice was a good one. As our household navigated the upheavals of new jobs and new roles and new babies, Christ in Red Robe was always there, studying us intently from the living-room wall of our apartment first, and then our starter home, and then our family-sized rambler. At one point a friend used the print to show me the duality captured in the Savior’s face: cover one half with your hand and he’s gently smiling, cover the other half and he’s sternly regarding. This visage was dramatically validated one Sunday during a Relief Society lesson, when the instructor related the background story of the painting, which was commissioned by the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve. Brother Parsons, overwhelmingly humbled by the task at hand, tried again and again to produce an acceptable image, but with each incarnation the prophets would shake their heads in kind yet firm disapproval. Finally, the artist produced the image now familiar to us all. When he presented it to the prophets, they nodded their heads and reverently said, “That is Him.”

That last part of the story is myth, but I didn’t know it at the time. I went home that afternoon feeling elated, believing this picture on my wall was much more than an inspiring representation of Jesus: it was actually him, the one true Christ. With even greater fervor I made his one true gospel my one true focus. I studied it line upon line into the wee smalls, diagrammed and analyzed, discussed and debated with other serious disciples (or so I considered us), then carefully incorporated its precepts into every facet of our family life. No wreckages for this household, unlike my family of origin. Ours was a house built upon the rock, with gentle smiles and stern regard, all under the watchful, golden eye of the Savior on the wall.

The Savior I hid in the closet when the walls came tumbling down.

I’m not sure how to describe what happened next. It wasn’t that I stopped believing in Christ—not at all. What I stopped believing in was the version of him that I’d painstakingly created over a decade of zealous Mormonism. This was a Jesus who orchestrated the minutest circumstances of my life with wisdom and love. Everything—everything—that happened was his will, my gains and losses, my wounds and creations. All he required was my faith and obedience, and he would lead me along the foreordained pathway home, strait and narrow and full of happy success. He was a good Jesus, to be sure, one that I’d custom crafted to fit the contours of my experience and perception. But when those contours changed, when I realized that life was all about being broken, and then broken again, and then broken some more, this Jesus was no longer real for me. How, exactly, could I explain that to six-year-old Sam?

Turns out I didn’t have to. As I write this from my desk, I look across the room to the new print on the living room wall, Minerva Teichert’s Christ in a Red Robe. The frame is three-and-a-half feet tall, about Sam’s size. The standing Lord is haloed, like a Greek icon, although the gold circling his head is softer, subtle, nearly blending into the ivory clouds behind him. He is outlined with confident strokes, but filled with nuances of light and shadow, shades of color from the palette of earth. No bold sea captain here—Jesus walks in meek majesty, stained red from treading the wine-vat alone. He is not the grand puppet-master of humanity; he is its lifeblood, its light. Not existing above and apart from creation, but throughout and within.

Today is the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. The white lights on our Christmas tree reflect in the glass covering the giclee, making the Lord’s crimson robe appear to be studded with stars. The woman crouched at his feet reaches with surety to touch him—not the hem of his robe, but his very self.

Joy Division: Unknown Pleasures

I bought this album in 10th grade, 1986. It was an import, so it came in a thick clear poly sleeve rather than the typical crinkly shrink-wrap. The sleeve had one perforated edge, allowing you to remove the record while preserving the protective layer. It was, I think, the first imported album I owned, and the slightly elevated edge of the slipcover made it stand out in the growing stack of records leaning against my crappy turntable/receiver/tape deck combo cube. I could easily find it in the dark. And fittingly enough, the music is particularly well suited for darkness, both literal and figurative.  

The album got heavy play throughout my sophomore and junior years, and became a point of connection with several significant people in my life, both in high school and beyond. Most importantly, it provided an inroad to myself at a formative time–and in many ways still does. Even after two decades of transformation, the view from that inroad remains essentially the same. It’s captured in the album’s opening line and groove notation (the “secret” message scratched into the blank vinyl rimming the album label):  I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand.

And now, five bites:

1. She’s Lost Control. Perhaps the best-known track on the album, and one of the weightiest for me personally. It opened side 2, which wasn’t actually called side 2–instead of being given numbers or letters the sides of this album were labeled as “Outside” and “Inside.” (Sadly, the significance of sidedness, like the thrill of groove notations, is lost on CDs and iTunes.) In 1986 the depression I’d carried through childhood was surfacing  into recognition, and from my first listen, this track’s hypnotic bass line and unearthly vocals combined to trace melancholy’s dark and shifting perimeter in my mind.

Confusion in her eyes that says it all
She’s lost control
And she’s clinging to the nearest passerby
She’s lost control
And she gave away the secrets of her past
And said I’ve lost control again
And of a voice that told her when and where to act
She said I’ve lost control again

It felt so familiar at age fifteen, the guitar chords straining against the weight of relentless rhythm. It still does.

2. Shadowplay, the next track, trades restraint for slowly building urgency. First verse:

To the centre of the city where all roads meet, waiting for you
To the depths of the ocean where all hopes sank, searching for you
I was moving through the silence without motion, waiting for you
In a room with a window in the corner, I found truth

Every listen, then and now, transports me to a dark stretch of unknown city, where I stand in the rain and wind, scanning faces, awaiting destiny with palpable anticipation and, at the very end, near-violent frustration.

(The video for the Killers’ version, which I just happened across on YouTube, features truly awesome footage and a truly horrid cover. Seriously–its awfulness rivals this, and that’s saying something.)

3. Interzone — the album’s brief manic peak. Vocals in unsettled layers, simultaneously pushing forward and pulling back. First verse:

I walked through the city limits
(Someone talked me in to do it)
Attracted by some force within it
(Had to close my eyes to get close to it)
Around a corner where a prophet lay,
(Saw the place where she’d a room to stay)
A wire fence where the children played
(Saw the bed where the body lay)
And I was looking for a friend of mine.
(And I had no time to waste)
Yeah, looking for some friends of mine

The first time Reed and I listened to this song together we sang along, voices drowned by stereo volume, and as its climax neared (trying to find a way to GET OUT) I wondered  if frenzy would break through his usual reserve. To my delight, it did.

4. Day of the Lords. The album’s first track (Disorder) is a relatively lively and ordered and hopeful song, yet ends in fragmentation and chaos; this track, which follows, is a full bottoming out. Last verse:

This is the room, the start of it all
Through childhood, through youth, I remember it all
I’ve seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain
And the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained

Some might call such stark despair self-indulgent or maudlin, but it couldn’t be more authentic for an unlucky some. Just months after Joy Division released this album in the USA, the band’s vocalist, Ian Curtis, took his own life. Two weeks ago I received word that an old friend of mine did the same. Mike, a highly intelligent, gentle-hearted, and frequently hilarious guy who suffered from crippling depression. A Joy Division fan. He had a creepy/funny experience with this song one random night on a dead-end road in the Maryland woods (yes, the Blair Witch woods, although that came much later), and ever since he told me about it, this song has brought him to mind. These days, even more so.

Which brings me to the last bite:

5. New Dawn Fades. Mike’s memorial service was held on Saturday. Unable to attend, I listened to Unknown Pleasures on my ipod while I ran errands, thinking of him and his wife and their baby son. I was sad but okay until this came on, my favorite song on the album, and one of my all-time favorites, now more than ever. Last verse:

We’ll share a drink and step outside,
An angry voice and one who cried,
‘We’ll give you everything and more,
The strain’s too much, can’t take much more.’
I’ve walked on water, run through fire,
Can’t seem to feel it anymore.
It was me, waiting for me,
Hoping for something more
Me, seeing me this time,
Hoping for something else.

Mike was waiting for a guide who never came. I’m still waiting, myself. And just beginning to understand what I’m waiting for.

Explore the complexities from a variety of Mormon and feminist perspectives, including my own, in this unprecedented symposium at Patheos.com.

– Led Zeppelin, The Battle of Evermore. When it comes to headphone music in general, Ramble On is the best Led Zep track. (In fact, if you haven’t heard the song through earbuds, you haven’t really heard it.) But on almost-Halloween night, all the rules change. Triple-necked guitar + mandolin + the angels of Avalon waiting for the eastern glow = pure magic.

– Radiohead, You And Whose Army. The previous track on the album is especially awesome on headphones (the airlock at 2:18!), so I began there, but once “Army” started all bets were off. Shivers from the opening inhale to the closing note. The humming in my left ear unlocked something ageless in me, and when the piano began I nearly left my body.

– Tool, Third Eye. Guitar beatings, veiled reverb, skidding screams. Yearning vocals and itchy whispers (had to turn around to make sure MJK wasn’t standing behind me). When absorbed in darkness, the 13-plus minutes of unearthly sound leave an indelible psychic mark.

Seriously, folks. All this plus half-melted Reese’s? I’m not worthy.

Panel: “Mormon Media Studies: Across Web Time, Cyberspace, and Blogging Disciplines”

Panel Moderator: Emily W.Jensen: MormonTimes.com Bloggernacle columnist

Abstract: Mormon bloggers will discuss why blogging is a valuable media outlet and illustrate how it promotes conversation. Discussion topics include sharing Church resources, breaking global boundaries, balancing life as blogger/mother, tracking a 25-year-online journey, and encouraging literary talent.

***

Panel: “I Am A Mormon Woman: Female Latter-day Saint Identity On The Internet”

Panel Moderator: Catherine Matthews Pavia: Ph.D., Faculty Associate, English Department, Arizona State University

Abstract: The founders of three LDS women’s online destinations will discuss how personal stories and discussion enhance the sense of community among women in the world-wide church, balanced with a celebration of the diversity of personal choices, background, ethnicity, and age. This panel will also discuss how women’s voices online contribute to the management of the church’s image on social networking and new media sites.

Without further ado:

REED’S TOP TEN ELEVEN TWELVE ALBUMS FROM HIGH SCHOOL

(0. ) New Order — Power, Corruption & Lies – I heard “Age of Consent” on the radio (rock and rhythm 95.5 KNAC) and was hooked.  Saved my pennies and bought this and enjoyed the whole thing.  Not the first New Order I had heard but this is the album that really got me digging into their first album and other early releases.  Probably the last album by them where there was still a little Joy Division in there.

In other words, the last good New Order album.

1. Elvis Costello and the Attractions  – Imperial Bedroom — Bought this gem of an album at Squid Records around the corner from my house.  That wasn’t the real name, but my friend Greg Soza said there were a bunch of squids who worked there so we called it Squid Records.  Some of those guys really were squids.  Anyway, I had about $6 burning a hole in my pocket and saw this and a Squeeze album and opted for Elvis.  I like this because it is a nice transition from the angry young man phase to his more mature songwriting.

My three favorite songs from his “best of” collection (which I listened to nonstop the semester I met you) are from this album. And it has a cool cover.

2. The Clash — London Calling – I really don’t like Rolling Stone very much.  They spend way too much time covering stuff that flat-out doesn’t matter, is over-rated, or just plain bad.  They did do something right — they determined this album as the best album of the 1980s.  Ding.

And one of the best album covers, period.

For me this album will always evoke memories of Russ chasing your civic.

3. The Alarm — Declaration -- Take this song of freedom …..  Ok, really cheesy, but there are few albums as fun to scream along to.  Plus, they were so earnest.  Also, I am convinced that they saw that U2 had members with names like Bono and The Edge, so the drummer called himself “Twist”.  Not really the same ring to it, huh?  Finally, I saw these guys walking through the Cleveland Airport when I was on my mission (long story).

This album almost made it on my list. It came to me via my brother during his brief indie phase. Besides the obvious accomplishment of the band members’ collective hair, it is, indeed, a fine scream-along album. In fact, I have a vivid memory of screaming the whole thing, start to finish, with my friend Kristin in her bedroom one boring summer afternoon in 1985. (And Twist is the goofiest drummer evar. )

4. The The — Soul Mining -- I remember hearing Uncertain Smile when it first came out in 1982 and thinking it was great.  That piano solo (by some guy named “Jools”) still gets me.  This whole album is incredible, especially when you listen on headphones.  When Matt Johnson re-released this album, he took off “Perfect” which is a great song.

I only know this album because of you. “Uncertain Smile” is one of the songs that makes me remember that summer you left me alone in Provo.

5. Joy Division — Closer – I know the safe bet is with Unknown Pleasures.  But when they zig, I zag.  This one just feels more complete and more mature than their first album.  plus Isolation is a great song for angst-ridden teenaged souls of any age.

I will save my diatribe for my own post. Suffice it to say that where you zag, I zig.

6. X — More Fun in the New World – Honest to Goodness, this is a good album.  It leaves me Breathless.  We are having much more fun so I must not think bad thoughts.  It is True Love when that Devil Doll makes the music go bang.  Enough of that nonsense.  I saw these guys play on a soccer field at Long Beach State.  The opening band “the Ten Inch Men (insert your “compensating for what?” joke here) were so bad, that some of the concert-goers pulled up a piece of turf and hit the keyboardist with it.  That hint was not enough to get them to end their set.

I got this album for $.99 in a cassette bargain bin and never listened to it. My loss, it seems.

7. Gang of Four — Entertainment -- I was introduced to GOF by Greg Soza of Squid Records fame (see above).  The basis of my friendship with Greg was purely alphabetical.  Soz always sat behind Sop.  And he liked to talk to me pretty much constantly in the classes we had together.  Those conversations eventually blossomed into me driving him around to sell bootleg U2 albums to small record stores all over the greater Los Angeles area.  But that is another story for another day.  ANYWAY —- Entertainment is just about the best british marxist punk album ever.  And I mean that sincerely.  Don’t be distracted by “I Love a Man in a Uniform” that came along two or three albums later — this stuff is genius.  I saw them play live (with Greg Soza) and the Red Hot Chili Peppers opened for them before the Peps had released their first album so no one really knew who they were.   The Peppers and GOF were both pretty entertaining.  Also, this  concert marked the time where I saw 2 men kiss for the first time (not Greg Soza).

“Not Greg Soza” meaning he wasn’t one of the two men, or that neither of the two men kissed him, or both?

Points for: being man enough to admit liking GOF, seamlessly referencing Chuck Klosterman, and seeing RHCP before their sock days.


8. REM — Reckoning -- I remember working with this guy at Price Club who felt the best way to judge the character of a person was to determine at what album they started listening to REM.  I think this was cause he started listening to them at Chronic Town when everyone else started with Murmur.  I find Reckoning to be their best all-around effort when Michael Stipe still made noises instead of singing.  Imagine a duet between him and Liz Frasier of Cocteau Twins.

This will always be my fave REM album. It’ll be on one of my future lists so I’ll save the gushing for later. Just two things I’d like to mention:

1. My intro to REM was a poem featured in SPIN by Butthole Surfers Gibby Haynes. ( It began: Michael Stipe/despite the hype . I will skip the rest because this is a family blog.)

2. I think the better way to judge the character of a person is to determine at what album they STOPPED listening to REM.

9. The Jam — Snap — My older brother was big into the Jam, as well as the overall mod scene in Southern California in the early 80s.  He owned this album and after he left on his mission, listening to it helped me to remember and appreciate him.  I’m glad he got this one because prior to this album, I think he owned a Vapors album (“Turning Japanese”) and a Men w/o Hats album (“Safety Dance”).   This album also got me started on my ill-fated attempt to own each and every 7″ single by the Jam.  Why would I want to do this?  I will give you a hint — no girlfriend.

Ironically enough, this penchant of yours helped you get a girlfriend later on.


10. Talking Heads — Remain in Light – This was my first album I ever owned.  Got it for christmas when I was a freshman.  Not the best overall TH album, but some really good songs on it.  It set the foundation for me seeing the Heads play for my first concert experience ever several years later for their Speaking in Tongues album.  I remember at that concert seeing semi-famous KROQ dj “Jed the Fish” there and learning that radio people were only cool when they were on the radio.

They’re usually short and fat and boring or obnoxious in person. Although, I believe Buffy and I were exceptions to that rule.


Honorable Mention — Ultravox — Lament — I know I will get some serious guff for this one.  But those who don’t like Ultravox, have never really given Ultravox a chance.  One Small Day and White China were both pretty rocking songs.   We had to read “On the Beach” by Nevil Shute that year in english class so “Dancing with Tears in my Eyes” really complimented that.  I think you have to cut Midge Ure some slack — he was the one who did most of the heavy lifting for “Do They Know It’s Christmas” but Bob Geldof takes all the credit.  And what did Geldof or the Boomtown Rats ever do that was noteworthy?  Nothing.  At least Ultravox released most of it’s 7″ singles with clear vinyl (I had all of them, not just from this album, but also from their previous albums.  Remember, no girlfriend).

Ultravox encapsulates everything bad about eighties new wave. You’re lucky your musical taste overall is grand enough to cover this sin.

COMING SOON: My list.