THE NINETIES-IST
Welcome again to another edition of Brook Pridemore’s The Nineties-ist. This edition discusses 1986, Detroit Rock City, Black Flag, the Dead Kennedys, and Tipper Gore being quite the bitch. For earlier installments, go here.

For the sake of disclosure, I was born in Detroit, MI. I lived in the city proper until I was about ten years old when my family, the beneficiaries of a small inheritance, moved to the distant suburb of Waterford. We were close enough to the city to reasonably claim Detroit as home, but far removed from the harsh realities of Motor City life in the 80s (abundant crack houses, “white flight,” etc.). Waterford is an unremarkable, working class town. Until recently, I joked that, after 1984 Detroit Tigers’ right fielder Kirk Gibson, that I was the second-most famous graduate of Waterford Kettering High School: turns out that Trevor Strnad, lead singer of The Black Dahlia Murder and one of my high school contemporaries, was just on the cover of Revolver magazine and Myspace’s front page last week, making him second-most famous. I’m not bitter; third place still gets a medal.

Strnad’s ascent to the upper echelons of metal is fitting, as Detroit is a HARD ROCK town. With due respect to the unstoppable groove of Berry Gordy’s MoTown, the Detroit music legacy is by and large one of big rock sounds, some of its most famous exports being Ted Nugent, The Stooges, The MC5 and the White Stripes. Pop metal group KISS were right on the mark with their 1976 single “Detroit Rock City.” Even Detroit’s rap scene, most recently spearheaded by Eminem and Insane Clown Posse, but also including nearly every name in the horrorcore genre, bears nothing in common with the peace and love sounds of early 90s stars like De La Soul, nor the fun, accesible hooks of pioneers like Run DMC. Nay, Detroit is a gritty town with a gritty sound.

Growing up in a cultural wasteland like Waterford, then, there were few contemporaries with which to cut my musical teeth, none of whom were interested in the quirky pop music that spoke to me. An early disciple of They Might Be Giants, the Violent Femmes and the Dead Milkmen, I found myself with no alternative but to gamely try and hang with the handful of other musicians in Waterford, almost all of them metalheads. None of the bands I joined could agree on a sound, and nearly all of them broke up before we got to play even one show. The last band I dallied with consisted of myself, the bassist of Waterford’s first-ever (and possibly only) ska band and the rhythm section of the reigning local metal group, famous among our mutual friends for being able to play any song in the Metallica catalog. My main role in this band was to play rhythm guitar and never go near the microphone, under any circumstances. Again, for the sake of disclosure, nearly everyone who heard me sing before the age of 18 told me not to bother trying to be a singer, that I was talentless at best. Thanks for the encouragement, guys.
More on #3: 1986

HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT…
Eddie Money
“Take Me Home Tonight”
Can’t Hold Back
1986 | Columbia

The trick to elevating a hit song to the status of true classic is twofold. First, embrace the idiocy of pop music. Eddie Money’s biggest hit, “Take Me Home Tonight,” is silly, stupid good fun. Containing many of the most ridiculous conventions of mid-80s pop (pointless saxophone solo, vaguely Asian-sounding keys a la “Turning Japanese”), “Take Me Home Tonight” works first and foremost because, when listening to the song, you can hear the smile on Eddie’s face, you can feel his tongue firmly in cheek. It’s refreshing to hear a song that knows it’s a goof, after years upon years of foolish irony masquerading as high art. Eddie, and everyone involved with the track, is clearly having a good time making the song. And the good time had in the studio translates immediately into a good time had by the listener. There’s no trick to the accessibility of “Take Me Home Tonight,” and that’s why it was such a big hit.
More on Eddie Money | “Take Me Home Tonight”

ART OF SONG
Bon Jovi
“Livin’ On A Prayer”
1986 | Mercury Records

Though some consider it prime fodder for karaoke only, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer” has withstood the test of time as a great (yes, great) song. Nearly everyone knows the tune, and even non-devotees can belt out the woes of fictional characters Tommy and Gina. The eighties was, in large part, a decade of big hair and over-the-top kitsch for pop-rock, in which Bon Jovi often partook, as can be seen by Exhibit A (“Bad Medicine”) and Exhibit B (“You Give Love A Bad Name”).

The sincerity with which “Livin’ On A Prayer” was written and is performed is what makes it stand out from the proud natives of New Jersey’s other well-known songs. Jon Bon Jovi particularly shines on this second single from the band’s classic 1986 album Slippery When Wet. It highlights his serious vocal range, one that he has repeatedly put to good use throughout the years. More generally though, the tune proves the band’s undeniable competence – once listened to afresh, in its original form, away from the musak-ish versions that drunken karaoke participants have so consistently butchered.  Guitarist Richie Sambora and percussionist Tico Torres shine, providing depth with their well-honed chops. And, though mildly tinged with the cheesiness typical of Bon Jovi, it has a great (yes again, great) melody and warmth, proving why Bon Jovi is still around.

by Alicia Dreilinger

A particularly epic performance of “Livin’ On A Prayer” from the 1987 MTV Awards:

HATE TO ADMIT IT BUT…
“You Can Call Me Al”
Paul Simon
Graceland
1986 | Warner Bros.

One of the very best representative quotes of Stephen Frears’ 2000 adaptation of Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity is also the first. Dejected, left alone for the first time in years, John Cusack’s mopey record nerd breaks the fourth wall, asking: “Did I listen to pop music because I was depressed, or was I depressed because I listened to pop music?”

Take your favorite “uplifting” pop song and actually listen to the words. Chances are the song won’t seem as uplifting once you strip away the hooks, melody and studio shine. One quick example: The Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice?,” on first and probably fiftieth listen, sounds like the ultimate innocuous teen romance song. But think about the narrator, fed up to the gills with curfews, parents and part-time jobs, longs for the day when he and his teen girlfriend can be older, responsible adults. Locked into responsible jobs, but able to be together, whenever. I hope it’s worth it, Brian Wilson. The idea of being a “responsible adult” terrifies me. That’s why I listen to pop music.
More on Hate To Admit It But… “You Can Call Me Al”

Hidden Gem:
The Mice
For Almost Ever Scooter
2004 | Scat Records

If you mix the reverb-happy psychedelia of Big Star with the skittering, punky sounds of The Soft Boys and the lo-fidelity charm of Sebadoh, you’re not far off from The Mice. The Cleveland, OH trio, comprised of brothers Bill (guitar) and Tommy (drums) Fox, along with bassist Ken Hall (who they acquired through an ad that read, simply “The Mice need bassist. No Metalheads!”) made gloriously unrefined, poppy punk (though, decidedly, not pop-punk) in the most apt of settings: a basement in the Midwest. Their entire official output is collected on For Almost Ever Scooter, named such as a mashing together of their lone EP (For Almost Ever: 1985 | Herb Jackson) and their lone LP (Scooter: 1986 | St. Valentine). The Mice get in and out in less than an hour, and you can’t help but feel like a bigger dose would kill the energy.
More on Record Review: For Almost Ever Scooter

Hidden Gems:
Hüsker Du, Candy Apple Grey; 1986 | Warner Brothers
The Replacements, Pleased to Meet Me; 1987 | Sire Records

Back when Minneapolis was known mainly to the music world as the home of Prince, two bands from the icy north gained a frenetic cult following and managed to foreshadow almost everything that would happen in the coming indie/alternative scene. The mid-to-late ‘80s saw the major label debuts of both bands with albums that struck a perfect balance between bar rock, punk noise and attitude, jagged emotion and piercing pop melodies.

Staggering on the threshold of success, Hüsker Du and The Replacements smoothed out the rough edges of their earlier independent releases, causing purists to grumble and winning new converts. Each band was only an album away from breaking up, and these exceptional collections found them holding things together with desperate, alcoholic energy. When Nirvana’s Nevermind (coincidentally also the title of a song on The Replacements’ Pleased to Meet Me) brought a decade-defining attitude and sartorial style into homes across America, the same purist fans grumbled again. It should have been The Replacements, they said. Or Hüsker Du.

“Smells Like Teen Spirit” was inspired by a TV commercial for deodorant, but these bands offered nothing in the way of a social message. When asked to look pretty for pictures, the perpetually-drunk Replacements refused. Pleased to Meet Me is about this reluctance to act in their own best interest, coupled with the sickening knowledge that they were ruining their own lives. “Never Mind,” “I.O.U.,” and “I Don’t Know” spit venom at the music industry, and the rest of the songs are rough, dirty, catchy anthems to ambivalence. The Mats, as they were called, really didn’t want to be rock stars. Or maybe they did. “Can’t Hardly Wait,” originally a hidden track much like “Train in Vain” on The Clash’s London Calling, had a slick production and could have been a radio single. Later it inspired a teen movie and appeared in romantic comedies along with REM’s “Everybody Hurts.” With characteristic perversity, The Mats picked “The Ledge,” a track about teen suicide, as their first single. It was instantly banned by MTV.
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