“I’m losing my edge to the art-school Brooklynites in little jackets and borrowed nostalgia from the unremembered eighties. I’m losing my edge, but I was there.” – LCD Soundsystem
Having entered the world in the late 80s, I was denied the exclusive privilege of being able to fully experience the magnificence and grandeur of this tremendous era in the history of popular consciousness. Luckily, I have parents who are more than willing to summarise the period for the uninitiated which pretty much entails:
1. Abysmal Music
2. Atrocious Fashion
3. Awful Design
And not much else, really. Sensing a common thread here? Apparently, the eighties can be seen as analogous to that cousin everybody has in their family, you know, the one with Tourettes Syndrome who comes round each year for Christmas. You acknowledge him, but then make a concerted effort to forget he was ever there, at least until he starts swearing again. Short of buying a time-travel device from Glebe markets, I’ll never really know if this eighties thesis is accurate. After all, the whole thing seems pretty funky to me, what with Rubik’s Cubes, pastel coloured shirts and mobile phones the size of small suburbs. They’re all SO retro right now!
But suddenly I’m struck by a horrible revelation – that I am actually reliving the 80s, albeit in a more bearable, bite-sized version. The Killers, Tsubi jeans and a proliferation of synthesized music all point towards one inevitable conclusion. Now I realise why my folks detest this decade so – not only did they have to endure it a mere twenty years ago, but they’re now stuck with the fallout of glam, post-punk and other art forms, which, once laughably pathetic, have been grossly mutated into that which is worshipped and revered by the uber-cool among us. It’s like Groundhog Day, but with Duran Duran lurking around every corner.
In 2006, it seems that harking back to the ‘80s’ sound’ – synthesizers, detached vocals and minimalist chord structures – has not only become standard in crafting popular music, but indeed is universally accepted as the only credible space of time from which to steal ideas. See, indie purists are adamant that my oldies have it all wrong. In their opinion, the eighties signify a vast mine of undiscovered musical gold. This could also be viewed as a yawning abyss full of discarded junk. I prefer the latter option.
The worst bit of it all is that the only decent aspects of the original eighties have been left behind in the reincarnation process. MTV has been overshadowed by MySpace, Lionel Ritchie rendered obscure by his untalented waif of a daughter and N.W.A outgunned by 50 Cent. If that’s not depressing enough, Bon Jovi are still releasing records, scampering about like cockroaches after the apocalypse. New bands establish their credibility by adding old-school gadgetry to their set-up, or radically transforming their sound like The Bravery, Hot Hot Heat and a host of other wannabes.
The only compelling argument for the proliferation of eighties influences in the noughties has emerged from one of mankind’s most primitive impulses – sex. As Rob Sheffield from The Village Voice brashly suggests “New wave’s eternal appeal has to do with its playful, humane pan-sexuality. It’s a safe space for kids to act out, to try on gay or straight or bi poses at will, without brutalizing each other”. This seems to makes sense, so I should probably declare it an all-encompassing rule. I love the eighties revival, but only if it makes me want to shag members of both sexes. There, problem solved.
