One of the most interesting aspects of punk was what came after it. As the history books of pop tell us, the punk rock blast of 1976-77, spearheaded in the US by the Ramones and then taken to new extremes with British bands like the Sex Pistols or The Clash, opened new opportunities for the creatively minded. Suddenly, as the famous saying went, three chords were enough to form a band: DIY aesthetics encouraged and caused outrage. But, as always, things were not meant to last. The roar of punk gave way to what is now commonly called “post-punk”, mostly associated with the cold pulse and jagged rhythms of Joy Division, PIL, Gang of Four, Magazine, Wire and others.
In the US, even harder styles emerged, with “hardcore” bands like Black Flag, Hüsker Dü or the Dead Kennedys. Post-punk became a term for experimental, challenging and progressive music which eschewed traditional, let alone commercial norms—and was also mostly seen as very dark in its nature (something I, as a Wire fan, would contest).
In the early years of the 1980s, something strange happened. The same people who once championed the punk ethos set out to make melodious, catchy pop songs.
Alas, as science teaches, every action has its reaction, and in the early years of the 1980s, something strange happened. The same people who once championed the punk ethos set out to make melodious, catchy pop songs—with their sights set on the charts. This would soon be called “New Pop” (for a comprehensive and extremely insightful history of all things post-punk, including New Pop, read Simon Reynold’s authoritative book Rip It Up And Start Again).
Rip it Up and Start Again
To give an example of how New Pop came about, we shall take a trip through the annals of Scottish pop, to examine the evolution of one of its finest representatives, Edwyn Collins‘s Orange Juice. The Glasgow band originally started as the “Nu-Sonics”, playing ramshackle Ramones covers, and taking their cues from punk and new wave bands such as the Buzzcocks, Talking Heads, Subway Sect or Television. But then, after they changed their name to Orange Juice and signed to Alan Horne’s legendary indie label Postcard Records, their sound transformed.
Collins’s incredibly catchy songs featured bright and jangly guitars, infectious melodies and his trademark crooning. Inspiration now came from such diverse sources as the Velvet Underground, The Byrds, soul music, and even disco, and Orange Juice served up their sound with a hint of irony and subversion. “I’ll never be man enough for you”, sang Collins in “Consolation Prize”, placing himself miles apart from the usual punk machismo.
Inspiration now came from such diverse sources as the Velvet Underground, The Byrds, soul music, and even disco, and Orange Juice served up their sound with a hint of irony and subversion.
Orange Juice’s 1980 debut album, You Can’t Hide Your Love Forever, on Polydor, which even featured an Al Green cover, can be seen as one of the founding documents of New Pop. The album’s single “Rip it up and start again” demands some special consideration, and not only because of its slogan-worthy title. Besides a smooth melody and suave vocals, the song featured two things that would become staples of New Pop. First, quotation from pop history, in this case an homage, in both lyrics and melody, to the Buzzcocks’ “Boredom”; and, even more importantly, the use of a synthesizer. The synth would go on to become the defining instrument of New Pop, as opposed to the classic rock instrumentarium. This music was decidedly not “rockist”.
We Oppose All Rock’n’Roll
In discussions of New Pop, some bands and artists will always be brought up. ABC, on which much more below, but also Haircut 100, Heaven 17, The Human League, Scritti Politti or even Dexy’s Midnight Runners. What all of these bands shared was a rejection of the “rock pose”. They used the term “rockist” as a pejorative for “standard rock”.
Instead, the protagonists of the emerging scene, with music journalists like Paul Morley as their mouthpiece, set out to re-think pop music by infusing elements of electronica, soul, disco or reggae (although the punks already shared a certain camaraderie with reggae musicians, for example the Clash covering Junior Murvin’s “Police and Thieves” on their first album). Of course, pop music is not just about music, but—to a perhaps even larger extent—about image. New Pop presented itself as colorful, upbeat, and playfully androgynous, a counterpoint to the usually darker and more desolate looks of punk, goth and hardcore.
New Pop presented itself as colorful, upbeat, and playfully androgynous, a counterpoint to the usually darker and more desolate looks of punk, goth and hardcore.
However, New Pop did not just want to make the audience dance and put on flashy clothes, but also think. Although this new music appeared to be the very antithesis of punk, it still wouldn’t have been possible without it. The lessons learned about subversion and irony were not forgotten: songs like “Absolute” or the beautiful “The Sweetest Girl” by art-school hipsters Scritti Politti (who started out as very uncompromising post-punk) sound like slices of perfect pop.
However, New Pop did not just want to make the audience dance and put on flashy clothes, but also think. Although this new music appeared to be the very antithesis of punk, it still wouldn’t have been possible without it: the lessons learned about subversion and irony were not forgotten. Songs like “Absolute” or the beautiful “The Sweetest Girl” by art-school hipsters Scritti Politti (who started out as very uncompromising post-punk) sound like slices of perfect pop.
But listen deeper and you’ll hear lyrics inspired by French post-structuralists and question the very nature of the pop song as make-believe. Besides that, there are quote-worthy verses like “Politics is prior to the vagaries of science”. New Pop was the design for different kinds of pop that refused to be shallow. A big production, yes, but with undeniable substance.
The Lexicon Of Love
The story of ABC begins in Sheffield in 1980, when electronic band Vice Versa hired a new synth player by the name of Martin Fry. Fry, a writer for local fanzine Modern Drugs and an avowed fan of glam and punk rock, quickly took his stand behind the microphone, when the band renamed itself ABC—because ABC is the most famous combination of letters in the world. The band had one mission: to combine the styles of the music they loved into a new sound. ABC admired post-punk bands like Joy Division or The Cure, and worshiped T. Rex, David Bowie and Roxy Music—but never forfeited their love for disco bands like Chic or Earth, Wind and Fire, or classic Motown soul (“When Smokey sings”).
ABC admired post-punk bands like Joy Division or the Cure, and worshiped T. Rex, David Bowie and Roxy Music.
In his own songwriting, Martin Fry sometimes went back even further. For inspiration, he looked to classic songwriters like Cole Porter or Rodgers & Hammerstein, choosing to write about emotional topics instead of the often philosophical, abstract or socially critical concepts of his contemporaries. While the songs were written and composed by all members of the band, as well as arranger and orchestrator Anne Dudley, one man had a massive hand in creating the sound of ABC’s debut album, The Lexicon Of Love: producer Trevor Horn, the man who “invented the Eighties”.
By this time, Horn had already achieved fame by being part of the Buggles and their hit “Video Killed The Radio Star”. In 1981, he became a full-time producer. Horn was especially interested in using the most modern synthesizer technology, i.e. the Fairlight CMI, an early digital synthesizer. In his production for ABC (as well as his work for Frankie Goes To Hollywood) Horn went in one direction: BIG. Every song bursts with sound effects and lush string orchestration. At times, he even overrode the band themselves. In Martin Fry’s mind, the only ballad on the album, “All Of My Heart”, was supposed to be a stripped down, acoustic affair. Horn disagreed and turned it into the orchestral, sweeping torch song we know today. He also managed to persuade the band to fire their bassist Mark Lickley in favour of Brad Lang, a musician he greatly preferred.
It all worked out perfectly in the end. All four of the singles from the album reached at least the Top 20 in the UK, where the album also topped the charts, as it did likewise in New Zealand and Finland. ABC became one of the pioneers for what would be labelled the “Second British Invasion”, when British New Pop and New Wave acts garnered considerable success in the US. The Lexicon Of Love became an instant classic.
If one listens to The Lexicon Of Love today, it does sound like 1982, very much a product of its time. However, it is not “dated”. The record is a classic for good reason. The songs are brimming with melodies and hooklines. The performances by the band and additional musicians, Trevor Horn’s extravagant production and Anne Dudley’s arrangements all contribute to music that indeed sounds “larger than life”, a film for the ears in the most exquisite Technicolor.
What is most astounding about the music is its force. Among the ten tracks of the original 1982 album there is only one ballad, the aforementioned “All Of My Heart”—and it is track 8. Before and after, ABC never lets up, delivering every note with a punk-like urgency, relentless like a Clash record. It’s not just the musicians; this energy also manifests in the vocals of Martin Fry. Fry had (and still has) a magnificent, very masculine voice, the kind of voice you wish to hear singing a James Bond theme (in fact, he did just that in 1996, when he covered “Thunderball” for film composer David Arnold’s James Bond project). Yet, although Fry had the ability to croon, he attacks the mic with a zeal bordering on rage (he reportedly went through a break-up during the recording process and channeled his feelings into his performance).
Fry had (and still has) a magnificent, very masculine voice.
The way Fry shifts between bitter sarcasm, genuine hurt and anger in the fierce “Valentine’s Day” is breathtaking. “Date Stamp” shows off his lyrical prowess, and also connects to the headier, analytical themes of Scritti Politti and even Gang of Four. “Date Stamp”, with its hook “Looking for the girl who meets supply with demand!”, might read like a modern take on a Cole Porter song, but is really a deconstruction of typical “pop-song love” as a transaction—“Love has no guarantee/ Yes, I’m date stamped”. Overall, love is a bitter thing in these songs; very seldom is there mention of a happy kind of love (“Shoot that poison arrow through my heart!”).
This connects The Lexicon Of Love to another masterpiece of pop, just as lushly produced and performed, but with equally somber themes—the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. And, just like Pet Sounds had “God Only Knows”, the masterpiece within a masterpiece, The Lexicon Of Love has “The Look of Love”.
The Lexicon Of Love could be connected to another masterpiece of pop—the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds.
“The Look of Love” is simply one of the greatest pop songs ever produced—exalting, jubilant, euphoric, a blast of joy and excitement; and yet it is a song about looking for but not actually finding love. “I hope you soon recover/ Me, I’m going from one extreme to another”.
Opportunities (Let’s Make Lots Of Money)
The Lexicon Of Love proved to be the high point for ABC, as well as for New Pop in general. The band’s next album, Beauty Stab, stripped down the sound for a somewhat harder edge. The band itself couldn’t last. It is now basically a solo project by Martin Fry (who even released an acclaimed sequel to The Lexicon Of Love in 2016). New Pop’s fate proved to be double-edged. In one regard, New Pop became what is now known as “80s Pop”, giving us the sophisticated, clever music of the Pet Shop Boys, Soft Cell, the Associates, or Eurythmics. It also led to something akin to what punk itself became: a hollowed-out cliché without substance.
During the 80s, the market was flooded with synth acts sporting funny haircuts who might never have heard the name Jacques Derrida. But, when the flamboyance became too much and the hairspray clogged the airwaves, a Manchester band with a very ordinary name released their first single on an indie label called Rough Trade in 1983, telling the world to kiss their shades. That is, however, a story for another day. For now, remember the time when the most Punk thing to do was to perform soul pop in a gold lamé suit. Hip-hip-hooray!
