By Christian Lipski
There comes a time in every band’s life when they release the album that represents their commercial and/or critical peak. And then there are the albums that come out after that. Perhaps on their own, the later albums would be popular and appreciated in their own right, but when compared to the more well-known works, they tend to fall short in most fans’ minds. They get passed up in retrospectives if not mocked outright, and they’re rarely on the list to be re-released. But there’s always something to love about them, especially if you bought them new.
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By Less Lee Moore
In 1983, having just experienced Adam Ant performing live to support Friend Or Foe (my very first concert!), I was a certified fan. I loved the videos for “Strip” and “Puss’n Boots” and was psyched for the upcoming Strip album.
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By Christian Lipski
Beginnings are a very delicate time. No matter how rabid or deep your fandom may be now, at some point there was a first experience, an introduction at a time when you weren’t sure that you were going to like whatever it was. If you do end up loving that artist, the first work always holds a special place in your heart, even if it’s not the “best” effort from that artist. I think it’s interesting to know how a fan was introduced to the object of his or her obsession, to see the foundation of a lifelong love. Interesting, too, to see the introduction to a failed obsession, when that first work didn’t blossom into more, but still remains important. Here is a selection of albums that were my first from the artists, some of which became the first in a long line of acquisitions, and some which did not.
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By Less Lee Moore
Duran Duran have often been accused of shamelessly plagiarizing from Japan, via their sound as well as Nick Rhodes’ makeup sensibilities. Both accusations are true; however, the Fab Five at least had the good sense and manners to acknowledge the influence of Japan on their own music.
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By Laura L.
Although the Beastie Boys released Paul’s Boutique in 1989, I was too busy gushing over Joey McIntyre of New Kids on the Block to even notice. Like most eight-year-olds at that time, my taste in music wasn’t all that hot. Thus, I did not listen to anything considered “edgy” or even “cool.” However, as I got older, I started to listen to the Beastie Boys and grew to appreciate their lyrical delivery and New Yorker commentary (much, much better than a commentary from The New Yorker, believe me). Finally, during my freshman year of college, I went on a music-shopping spree and bought a used copy of Paul’s Boutique. It has been a solid part of my record (CD?) collection ever since.
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By Less Lee Moore
Every Mardi Gras, the suburban kids in Metairie, Louisiana would congregate in the 7-11 parking lot on the corner of Bonnabel and Veterans Boulevard to “watch the parades.” It was mostly an excuse to escape the watchful eyes of parents and hang out with fellow miscreants and misfits. For many, it was a way to smoke dope or huff amyl nitrate. But for me, it was a way to rub shoulders with the only new wave and punk rock kids I could find.
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By Michelle Patterson
Squealing at the top of our lungs, we sprinted to our softball coach’s station wagon, desperate for cover from the pouring rain. All of us wiped down our dirt-streaked legs with the towels meant for cleaning out the bottoms of our cleats and seriously mulled over what type of Bubble-Yum to have on the way home. As we chomped down hard in frustration at not getting to play a game, and popped piercingly loud bubbles, coach gave us a glare. He clicked on the radio to drown out our sullen chews. A gospel-tinged, country-flavored song with a soaring guitar line in the background roared to life. All the other girls in the car immediately started singing along. It didn’t take long until I figured out the simple loop and repeat of the lyrics, so I was screaming with them in no time. It was a thrill; I felt like I belonged and was a real part of something. And now we were singing, howling together with the ridiculous passion usually reserved for cheers of victory after winning a game or stealing second base. This “Purple Rain” song was painting real grins of satisfaction on our faces.
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By Christian Lipski
I heard about Tori Amos in early ’92 from a Kate Bush newsgroup, where they kept referring to this mysterious album called Y Kant Tori Read and wondering where it might be found. I dug Little Earthquakes so the existence of an additional entry in the Amos canon was a tantalizing thing. I saw a copy of YKTR once in a record shop in Tucson, Arizona, selling for $300—so close, yet so far.
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By Christian Lipski
Twenty-two years ago I was in my freshman year of college, and my friend Mark and I decided to spend two weeks of our winter break in London. We were both huge music fans: Mark was a Beatles expert and I followed David Bowie, so London was Music Mecca for us. Pictures of me from the trip show a plastic shopping bag always at my side, full of tapes for my Walkman. My headphones were nearly always on, pumping a steady diet of British sounds into my brain. Adam Ant, Gary Numan, Bowie, Rolling Stones. . . the bag was very heavy.
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By Jimmy Ether
The second British invasion hit me squarely between the eyes in 1983. Having just been graced with the glowing electric love of cable (and, as a result, MTV), I was transfixed by Kevin Rowland and his rag-tag overall-clad crew dancing in the streets to “Come on Eileen.” Dexys Midnight Runners was my first visual splash of Great Britain, and while I had grown up listening to healthy amounts of my Dad’s Brit-rock, I never really geographically separated The Beatles from The Beach Boys or The Who from Aerosmith. But, with video, the contrast was sharp.
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