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So apparently 'home sick' == 'nostalgia'
After discovering that my Talking Heads collection was almost entirely on cassette or vinyl, I fished out Louder than Bombs. What about this album is not seminal and iconic? The bright orange of the album cover, unsettling to look at, almost uncomfortable. The perfectly casual 'couldn't be arsed' pose of the cover girl, with the washed out presentation adding to that jaded look that says we're all going to be blown to hell by a nuclear missile anyway so what does it matter? And to top it off, she's smoking. Lung cancer? Fuck that--nobody's going to live that long.
The cassette boldly proclaimed that it was double length--there were more Smiths in here than your standard cassette could handle on a *good* day. Of course, the cassette by now has gone through three worn-out iterations before being replaced by the magic of digital.
The heft of the case, stuffed full of liner notes including all the lyrics. Before the internet, I desperately relied on those. I could rarely sort through the music to pick out the words, more so with the stuff I leaned toward--dark, layered, thick with distortion.
And then there were the lyrics themselves. I'm not one of those who thinks everything Morrisey does is genius, but I cannot deny he has an ear. Anybody who somehow has not heard the Smiths, I'll happily do some c/p, but I'm already running long. So I'll just say that they're evocative, and they fall together in sometimes unexpected but satisfying ways.
And, if I may just say so? JOHNNY. FUCKING. MARR.
I'm impressed that I can remember a majority of the words to sing along to. But all I could manage of "London" was the bassline.
After discovering that my Talking Heads collection was almost entirely on cassette or vinyl, I fished out Louder than Bombs. What about this album is not seminal and iconic? The bright orange of the album cover, unsettling to look at, almost uncomfortable. The perfectly casual 'couldn't be arsed' pose of the cover girl, with the washed out presentation adding to that jaded look that says we're all going to be blown to hell by a nuclear missile anyway so what does it matter? And to top it off, she's smoking. Lung cancer? Fuck that--nobody's going to live that long.
The cassette boldly proclaimed that it was double length--there were more Smiths in here than your standard cassette could handle on a *good* day. Of course, the cassette by now has gone through three worn-out iterations before being replaced by the magic of digital.
The heft of the case, stuffed full of liner notes including all the lyrics. Before the internet, I desperately relied on those. I could rarely sort through the music to pick out the words, more so with the stuff I leaned toward--dark, layered, thick with distortion.
And then there were the lyrics themselves. I'm not one of those who thinks everything Morrisey does is genius, but I cannot deny he has an ear. Anybody who somehow has not heard the Smiths, I'll happily do some c/p, but I'm already running long. So I'll just say that they're evocative, and they fall together in sometimes unexpected but satisfying ways.
And, if I may just say so? JOHNNY. FUCKING. MARR.
I'm impressed that I can remember a majority of the words to sing along to. But all I could manage of "London" was the bassline.