"I don't care what anybody says," Patrick remarked from behind the wheel last Monday morning, "I like this song."
Said song being INXS' "Devil Inside", one of several hit singles from their monstrously popular 1988 album Kick. In particular, Patrick--a mere five years old at the time the track was brand new to radio--liked the jungle-y percussion and slyly hedonistic lyrics.
I couldn't but concur; INXS have long been one of those bands that I'll admit to liking while in no hurry to indulge in any pesky revisionist history on their behalf (they have eleven studio albums, of which four are worth owning; decent average for a hitter in baseball, but not great at all for a band). The official line on the Aussie sextet accuses them of trafficking in the disposable, soulless, pseudo-funk seemingly peculiar to white males, less a band than a dancer that nails all the steps but communicates none of the subliminal heat that suggests art. Of course there was that dreadful TV show Rock Star: INXS, wherein the surviving band members sought a replacement for the single inimitable factor the group had--late singer Michael Hutchence. Crass and deplorable, it was relegated to VH-1 from its original home on CBS less than midway through its run.
Their general sonic innocuousness and made-for-TV image were popular reasons to write off INXS at the peak of their popularity. Blatant avarice, desperate Jones-trailing and a newer, more uniformly unpleasant sound are reasons to consider the band a nagging nonentity post-Hutchence. In the mad clanging of shovels, however, gems have gone unnoticed and thus buried. Of the not-quite-a-handful of quality albums INXS left for posterity, one cuts a sharper vision than the rest. No, not The Swing, although that does seem to be the de rigeur choice for people inclined to even give INXS credit. I refer to the album before: 1982's Shabooh Shoobah.
The One Thing--Like many Americans, my first exposure to INXS, as MTV saw fit to run this gastronomically ecstatic video day and night. (No, I didn't grasp the whole symbiotic deal with food and sex until many years later. I was so innocent, once upon a time.)
A better song to kick off an album they could not have prayed for. Andrew Farriss' synth plays peekaboo with bro Tim's snarling pose of a guitar riff while Michael Hutchence finally gives his hyper sexuality room to slink. His whole Jagger-meets-Morrison persona was overcompensation, but the boy did have a voice with more (debauched) life than most of his 80s radio peers and could even pen a nasty couplet here and there. "You've got a dozen men behind you/You've got dead flowers on the floor".
Who the hell are any of us to challenge a track that tickles the fancies of Wayne Coyne and Chan Marshall, anyway?
To Look At You--Soundtrack for a video the band punted up to the attic like it was some senile granny. With good reason. The Human League does not become them.
Shabooh Shoobah is 35 minutes carved out of a wide, arid night. The subject matter may be trite--sex, love, outsiders, sex, love, I just read some fucking ace 19th century poetry now listen to my weeded-out attempt to put a modern twist on it--but the immediate space these song build up around themselves is assured and arresting.
So what is the "name to call" for a girl who "knows the feelings but never the words"? I have no clue, and neither do you. That's strictly some shit that rock stars drum up to get panties moist and droppin'. The "chorus", such as it is, goes from muted intonation to BOOM POW SURPRISE as a warm synthy bed cuddles up with stubby-faced piercing guitar lasery. Thrills me far more than I should ever let on.
Spy of Love--Another promo vid that the band tries to distance themselves from, apparently. No clue why, it's utterly free of the oddball stabs at artiness that plague the videos of so many young musicians.
Who does Brazilian deco lounge music better than Australians? Is that a jug six seconds in? Once again the chorus is louder than God bellowing through a line of Li'l Bastard megaphones. It works, though, and the lyrics do a fine job of at least appearing clever. Hutchence could phrase like a motherfucker.
Soul Mistake--When I was much younger and had not yet tasted from the bittersweet buffet of love, I thought that it was pretty much everything suggested by this here number: ostensibly sage murmurings followed by the clarion call of regret. I grew up and wiser, soon learning the folly of gypsy analogies as a general rule, but still "This soul never listens to me/This soul has a lot to learn" is truth.
Some fantastic bass on "Soul Mistake" courtesy of Garry Gary Beers. Now let me never type that horrid name out again.
Here Comes--Meant to engender a sense of foreboding if not outright paranoia, Hutchence speaks in terse fragments while his instrument-wielding mates keep it tight like frog ass. Jon Farris is a motherfucker on drums, I can't deny him that.
Black and White--Speakin' o' which...Farriss' knack for inventive percussion that so entranced Patrick is on display here, a rhythmic clatter that powers along a mature rumination on romantic anomie. Bonus points for a synth solo comprised of robotic squawks and squiggles.
Golden Playpen--It pops like a cork, tinkles like ice, and sways like an inebriated bastard. In other words, teems with authenticity (though I doubt Mr. Hutchence was ever as lonely whilst pubhopping as the tone of this track suggests). Have I truly neglected to mention Kirk Pengilly until now? It's sax! It's madness! It's sax madness!
Jan's Song--INXS goes Midnight Oil. Protest and survive! Mind you, I think this is less an anthem for the liberation of aborigines and more a cool jazz ode to one young girl's refusal to settle for a waitressing gig.
Old World New World--Reminds me of Donkey Kong Country. That's not at all bad! Much prattle 'bout historical places, events and peoples. Nadir of the album, but still a good 'un. I could put this back-to-back on a mix CD with "Mesopotamia" by the B-52's and have a good time.
Don't Change--An album that started so grandly ends even more spectacularly. Music fans who think INXS swallow all sorts of sex organs love this song. Have fond memories of making out to it, or ringing in the New Year to it. It is the definition of "anthemic", and all other songs that would be labelled such must be held up to the lofty standards set by the hymnal to propulsive and back again structure, the ambulance wail of the chorus (one of the greatest hooks in pop music history) and the earnest, universal pleading of the lyrics. How did this not rule radio in 1982? Why were the airwaves saturated with the putrid likes of "Open Arms" instead? "Don't Change" still makes me want to punch cinderblocks into pebbles with all the joy of a child opening Christmas presents.
Weaksauce title aside, Shabooh Shoobah is a fantastic pop record, INXS's sonic apex. It is also possibly the great lost album of the '80s (mainstream edition). Find it.
INXS
No comments:
Post a Comment