Public Image Ltd.: Album

Those of you who read this blog with any kind of regularity will know that I’m as much a fan of the presentation and artwork of an album as I am a fan of the music contained within. I believe it was Peter Grant, manager of Led Zeppelin, who famously said that you could wrap a Led Zep album in a paper bag and it would still sell millions of copies. So, they did just that with their 1979 album In Through The Out Door, and it turns out Grant was right.

Anyway, last spring, while perusing one of the websites that I regularly visit – and often get some music recommendations, or at least news regarding new albums – there was a thread in the forums about posting your favorite album cover. Amidst countless metal covers, which never did anything for me, I saw one album that made an impression: Public Image Ltd.’s Album, with its generic, plain white background, its generic, dark blue Helvetica bold font (slightly tracked back), and its generic album title, appropriately altered depending on the format. (The “generic” theme was a lampoon of generic brand foodstuffs, and it has been posited that the inspiration was drawn from Repo Man, which has products in a supermarket titled “food”, “beverage”, etc.) Public Image Ltd., or PiL for short, which is how I’m going to refer to them from now on in this entry, was formed by Johnny Rotten – now going by his given name, John Lydon – in 1978, and was the exact opposite of his previous band, the Sex Pistols: experimental, post-punk art rock, with leanings in industrial and even dub. In other words, a far cry from the basic two-chord one album wonder that was the Sex Pistols, and while PiL wouldn’t make as big a wave in the music press as the Pistols did, their music is certainly far more adventurous and artistically refreshing.

However, it’s Album that is the most conventional release, and embodies none of the artistic and musical wildness of PiL’s earlier albums; there isn’t any dubstep, no reggae, or tuneless vocals. In fact, it’s the most melodic and beautiful record they’d put out, with seven sprawling tracks that make good use of the technology of the day – Fairlight CMI, a digital sampling instrument; thundering drums; swooping synthesizers; and a grand production sound – without being overbearing or obnoxious, like most other pop albums of the day. Lydon even manages to sing melodies, though his lyrics are as sparse and oblique as ever.

When reading over the cast of musicians, it seems to be a motley crew of random proportions: drumming duties are split evenly between former Miles Davis drummer Tony Williams and then-retired former Cream skin smacker Ginger Baker, while one-time Frank Zappa proteges Bernard Fowler and Steve Vai contribute backing vocals and guitar, respectively. In fact, it’s Vai’s presence that caused the most consternation among PiL fans; it was on the same level as having Eddie Van Halen on Thriller, or Stevie Ray Vaughan on Let’s Dance. A lot of this was down to producer Bill Laswell, whose CV reads like a Who’s Who of music from the past 35 years, and it was likely his distinctive artistic creativity that convinced Lydon to add such subtle touches as electric violin, acoustic bass, chatan pot drums, and even didjeridu.

The “ingredients”, as the songs are called on the back cover, are mostly single-word verbs (‘Rise’, ‘Fishing’) or nouns (‘Bags’, ‘Home’), leaving the listener with little impression as to what they may be about. It’s refreshing, however, because the simplicity of the song titles translates to the arrangements and lyrics; there’s not much here that’s overly preachy or contains heavy messages (surprising, considering its release was in 1986, at the height of socio-economic messages vis a vis Live Aid), but it’s simple kick-ass music. Opener ‘FFF’ is a middle-fingered send-off to fairweather friends, and opens up with a driving, forceful rhythm with an emphasis on drums and metallic riffs. Lydon caterwauls to good effect, with Vai screeching manically behind him, and the attitude and sound of the album is established pretty quickly. A pattern of fast-followed-by-slow songs is set with ‘Rise’, a melodic and powerful song that, on the surface, appears to not be about much, but is in fact about the apartheid in South Africa, which was then big in the news. The repeated chorus of “May the road rise with you”, a traditional Irish saying, combined with the larger-than-life production help turn this into a meaningful, anthemic track. (Shankar’s electric violin is practically buried in the mix, unfortunately.)

‘Fishing’, meanwhile, isn’t as memorable, and sounds a bit out of place next to some of the more melodic stuff. With a clattering of drums and percussion as Lydon once again rails against spineless people, this time to poseurs who speak loudly about an issue but has no real opinion of worth; Lydon pleads for them to “crawl back into [their] dustbin”. ‘Round’ leads nowhere, and is once again a drum-heavy track with Lydon’s apparently convoluted approach to lyric writing saying practically nothing, apart from a passing reference to a nuclear holocaust (“Mushrooms on the horizon”). Contradicted by the imminence of worldwide terror is the fear of heights with ‘Bags’, with the repeated refrain of “Black rubber bag” being a body bag.

With the three middle songs being mostly similar, it’s ‘Home’ that returns us to the quality of songwriting and arrangement that the album started off with so strongly. Once again addressing current events and politics, and the comforting bosom of home, Lydon returns to the post-apocalyptic vision of a scorched earth and the pessimistic “Better days will never be” mantra. However depressing a world the lyrics may evoke, the song is still swamped in ’80s effects and production touches, which, for some reason, triggers some kind of optimism in me. The album closes with the epic ‘Ease’, one of the very few 8 minute songs I can listen to over and over and never get tired of. A 90 second didjeridu/synthesizer duel opens the song before Baker’s thundering drums kick the song into overdrive, and as Lydon howls about the dull activities of a couple named Susan and Norman, the menace of the backing track is palpable. Nearly six minutes in, as Lydon finally ends his simple tirade, Vai comes screeching in with a blistering solo, and as the tension builds up into a towering cacophony, finally his guitar can handle the abuse no more, and he backs off, closing out one of the most frustrating and awe-inspiring albums of the mid-1980s. It’s not a perfect album by any stretch, but it is alternately melodic and tuneless, and, truth be told, quite intimidating.

Essential listening: FFF, Rise, Home, Ease