Three Albums: 1979

1979 was not only the soundtrack of my early adolescence, it was also a year for bracing debut albums, last gasps and new directions for several rock dinosaurs, and a banner year for both great guitar solos and silly love songs. For this episode's deep dive, I have chosen landmark albums by The Cars, Fleetwood Mac, and Gang of Four, while taking several detours to explore everything 1979 can muster. 

Notes: I managed to make a few slips of the tongue in my discussion of Gang of Four's Entertainment!  I refer to the song "Contract" as "Contact"--not once, but twice! It's never been my favorite Gang of Four song, but come on. Steven Wilson obviously likes the song much more than I did, choosing to include it in his excellent 4 cd compilation of "progressive sounds in UK alternative music" titled Intrigue, released by Edsel in 2023. I also referred to "5:45" as "5:05," which is, um, off by forty seconds. 

Transcript

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I’m Greg Martin, and this is three albums (cue sound clip— 1979).

Welcome to 3 albums, where each episode I do a deep dive on three albums that are connected by artist, year, theme, or genre. Judging from the initial sound clip, you might think I’m planning an examination of the relatively concise discography of the first incarnation of the Smashing Pumpkins, or a trip back to the Grunge Era. Instead, let’s focus on the year Billy Corgan was singing about— 1979. Corgan’s nostalgic ode to his youth is also a tip of the cap to mine— we are practically the same age, and most assuredly both approached the death knell of the Seventies with the same mixture of exhilaration and apprehension that every junior high kid felt at the time. 1979 was a good year to not even care about shaking those zipper blues, as Billy sang, and it was an even better year to be listening to the radio, or the stack of vinyl next to your stereo. Post-punk was so new it had only been given a name a little over a year earlier, and 1979 was filled with bracing, daring debut albums. A number of rock icons also put out notable releases that year-some that pointed a new way forward,  and some that represented a last gasp before a final collapse. The mellow pop music of the decade continued apace, while hard rock and metal filled stadiums and poured from car radios. 1979 was the soundtrack of my early adolescence, and is truly worth celebrating. For this episode's deep dive, I have chosen The Cars new wave classic, Candy-O, Fleetwood Mac's quirky follow up to the bestselling Rumours, the double album Tusk, and Gang of Four’s first offering, Entertainment. Along the way we will take a look at some of those exciting debut discs, check in on a few rock demigods and dinosaurs, listen to some of my all-time favorite guitar solos, and hum along to some great Seventies Yacht rock.
Ready? Let's get started. (Shadowplay)

That was Shadowplay, by those masters of gloom, Joy Division, off their first album, 1979’s Unknown Pleasures. Like all of Joy Division’s best work, Shawdowplay has a visceral power that threatens to burst through your speakers, and Ian Curtis’ haunting vocals proved he could rival the Doors’ Jim Morrison as rock music’s greatest baritone. You could throw a rock out of your living room window in the early aughts and were likely to strike a musical act that sounded like Joy Division, and that influence started here. They were not alone— several iconic bands got their start in 1979. The Cure and the Fall both released their debut albums in the first half of the year, with the B-52’s following suit in the first week of July. All of these are worth your time and attention, but I would like to focus instead on a handful of debuts that I feel truly illustrate the stylistic diversity and willingness to experiment that defined rock n roll at the end of the Seventies. 

Let’s start with The Roches. No, not roach with an a, roche with a c-h-e, as the artists themselves literally spell out for you on the the first song of their self-titled album. The Roches were a trio of sisters from New Jersey with a throwback sound— part barbershop quartet, part Joni Mitchell-styled balladry, part late 60's campfire singalong. The eldest two sisters had been singing together for years, and actually backed up Paul Simon on his 1973 album There Goes Rhymin Simon, but this was the first album where youngest sister Suzzy joined them. She was a perfect add, her voice a bridge between Maggie Roche’s contralto and Terre’s soprano, making the resulting harmonies full and memorable. The lyrics to many of the songs are everywoman lyrics— songs about leaving home, asking a former employer for your job back, trying to muster up the courage to strike up a conversation with a stranger on a train. But there’s a wit and an insight to the words that reward repeated listens. Especially of note is Hammond Song, the most 1979 sounding song on the album. Ostensibly about persuading a family member not to run off with a guy, it also references Hammond, LA, where the older two sisters holed up for awhile as they decided if they really wanted to stick with this music business thing. The gentle acoustic guitar strum and the vocal harmonies are a perfect fit— and then we get a guitar solo courtesy of the album’s producer, King Crimson’s Robert Fripp. This is the only track on the album where Fripp’s influence is really noticeable, but boy, is it noticeable here! It truly is the oddest place imaginable to hear King Crimsony goodness, and it’s a pleasant surprise on a wonderful song on a deeply enjoyable album. (Hammond Song)

Joe Jackson not only released his debut album at the beginning of 1979, he also put out his second album on the 5th of October. Some might consider Jackson's work a bit fussy and cold, but Look Sharp! And its follow-up, I’m the Man, possess a nervous energy that is infectious. Jackson displays a great ear for melody, and isn’t afraid to try on different hats—Look Sharp moves through pub rock, rockabilly, and even reggae with excellent results. At times Jackson sounds a little like a junior Elvis Costello, at others like a punkified Dave Edmonds or Nick Lowe. I enjoy how the verses rely on sticky riffs with few notes, while the bridges often have complex musical interludes— some smooth and jazzy, some absolute rave-ups. Like throughout his career, Jackson manages here to bridge hummable pop and a trickier rock sound-much like Steely Dan, although the two artists don’t really sound that similar. 
Look Sharp! has several standout tracks, but Got the Time, the last song on the album, is by far the liveliest of the bunch. It has a real late for the tea party Mad Hatter feel to it— the guitars zip along while the drums provide a manic bounce for Jackson to sing along to. Jackson spits out the lyrics as fast as he can— all about the urgency of time, which every note of the song emphasizes a hundredfold. This is undoubtably the most punk Jackson would ever get, and it’s no surprise that the thrash metal band Anthrax chose it to cover on their 1990 album Persistence of Time. Got the Time and all of Look Sharp proved that Joe Jackson was, from the jump, a force to be reckoned with. (Got the Time)

I have to touch on “It’s Different for Girls,” the quote unquote single off Jackson’s second album of 1979, I’m the Man. Built on a metronomic, two note guitar riff, It’s Different for Girls explores a familiar trope: sex, and love as opposed to sex. At first glance, it seems the protagonist of Jackson’s song is your typical guy, looking for a sexual conquest, frustrated that his date doesn’t “want the same things”. But then he inverts the old stereotypes, as Jackson explained in a 2012 interview: “It was something that I heard somewhere that struck me as a cliché. I thought, What could that be about? And that maybe the idea was to turn it on its head and have a conversation between a man and a woman and what you'd expect to be the typical roles are reversed.” Jackson’s take might be thought of as a bit high concept, but it really works. He sings the verses in a restrained way, and then bursts out on the choruses, with a tone that mixes bitterness and anger as he proclaims— you’re all the same. It’s an arresting performance, and even though It’s Different for Girls barely missed even making it onto Billboards hot 100, it is easily one of the best songs Jackson ever recorded. (It’s Different for Girls).

The Raincoats were one of Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain’s favorite bands, and it’s easy to see why he admired them—they managed to combine punk energy with an anything goes eclecticism that was both odd and appealing. There’s also an intimacy to their music, as Cobain explained in his liner notes for the rerelease of their debut album: “When I listen to the Raincoats I feel as if I'm a stowaway in an attic, violating and in the dark. Rather than listening to them I feel like I'm listening in on them.” Formed by a pair of London art students after seeing the Slits perform in early 1977, they added the Slits former drummer and a classically trained violinist to the mix before the self-titled debut was recorded and released in 1979. The sound of the album is a mélange of influences— you hear the Slits, sure, as they were both all-female bands with English singers, but you also hear The Velvet Underground in Vicki Aspinall’s jagged violin figures and Palmolive’s sometimes tribal-sounding drum beats. The chorus of the song Black and White reminds me of a no wave version of The New York Dolls’ “Personality Crisis,” and some of the more minimalistic songs sound a bit like Beat Happening, or Lord help me, a really talented version of The Shaggs. My favorite song on The Raincoats, Fairytale in the Supermarket opens the album with a flourish. Coming across like a lost Velvets track, Fairytale combines Aspinall’s woozy violin with a memorable bass line, as Gina Birch delivers her lyrics with a Johnny Rotten snarl, except for a moment where she coos “ Don't ask me anything/I'm no secret agent/Got no colours to give to you.” Like the rest of the album, it’s a splash of cold water to the face— both surprising and invigorating in equal measures (Fairytale in the Supermarket)

How much you like Gary Numan’s debut album might well depend on how much you like the Vox Humana setting on the polymoog keyboard, because that’s how Numan created that spooky, echoey synth noise that is all over The Pleasure Principle and his hit single, Cars. The Pleasure Principle was the first of several albums by Numan to chart in the United Kingdom, but it’s the only one that made any noise in the US, making Numan a bit of a one hit wonder to many. That’s a shame, because The Pleasure Principle is a great debut, and Numan’s spacey keyboards prefigured the sound of the new wave in the early 80’s. 
Three other things to note about The Pleasure Principle:

An argument can be made that The Pleasure Principle was not Numan's début album. He recorded two albums as the lead singer, sole songwriter, and public face of the band Tubeway Army, which had a #1 UK hit with Are Friends Electric in May of 1979. By the time The Pleasure Principle was released four months later, the Tubeway Army moniker was dropped. The best thing Numan recorded as Tubeway Army was the dreamlike synth single Down in the Park, which also came out in 1979 (Down in the Park)
  The fifth song on The Pleasure Principle, M.E., is an icy number with an angular groove, and pretty nifty in it's own right, but was even better when repurposed as a sample that drives Basement Jaxx's four on the floor dance classic Where's Your Head At. Here Numan's original. (M.E.)
And Here's Basement Jaxx, taking Numan's future sounds and making them move: (Where’s Your head at)
Finally, the last thing I want to mention about The Pleasure Principle is my favorite song on it. Nope, it isn't Cars. Cars is a great single, and the phrase Here in my car, I can lock all the doors is often stuck in my head, but the song I feel tops it is Metal, the first real song on the album following à meandering instrumental. Like Cars, Metal is built on a minimalistic keyboard riff, which sounds like automation— this is the music our robot overlords will listen to as they build more of their own. And that’s precisely what Numan is singing about— being a machine, wanting to be human, questioning whether or not we too are metal. Like the band Devo, Numan sees a forbidding future, but while Devo sounded downright chipper racing towards destruction, Numan is cold and grim— that’s probably why Nine Inch Nails covered Metal (and covered it splendidly) in 2000. Numan’s work here, and through much of career, may only strike a few icy notes, but they are notes well worth listening to (Metal)

This brings us to the strangest debut of 1979, the self-titled album by the experimental band This Heat. Formed in Camberwell, London in late 1975, the trio had roots in both experimental and progressive rock, and those influences are evident here. There was an odd, uncompromising element to This Heat from the get-go: their first demo tape, which they sent to the influential radio presenter John Peel, was recorded in an empty cold storage room formerly belonging to a meat pie factory. That openness to experimentation and improvisation also marks This Heat’s 1979 debut, often referred to as The Blue and Yellow by fans, due to the colors on the album’s cover. It opens with electronic noise, like the sound a modem makes when accessing the internet. The next track, Horizontal Hold is a shifting tide of improvisations. Not Waving is horror movie atmospherics that eventually develops a melody. Water spends much of its three plus change minutes sounding like someone tripping over percussion instruments in a crowded band room, and Twilight Furniture has an atonal vocal partially subsumed by tribal drums. And that's just side 1! The key track on the album is 24 track loop, which opens side 2. Essentially a organ and drum groove, This Heat looped a two-inch bit of the 24 tracks and created something that sounds a lot like 90's techno, complete with extra organ overdubs and weird bits of viola. It's an insistent, pounding track that highlights how forward thinking and truly progressive This Heat was, while still making music that is absolutely riveting. It is arguably my favorite debut of 1979 (the next album might have something to say about that), and it’s a remarkable beginning to an important, if very short, career. Oh yeah…This Heat’s second album, Deceit, is even better (24 track loop).

Which brings us to the first album in our 1979 deep dive, Gang of Four’s debut, Entertainment! There is an exclamation point at the end of that title, and you can hear that in the music— Entertainment is an album that shakes you awake, with both angular funk and politically charged lyrics that still feel relevant today. There’s a ferociousness and an immediacy to Gang of Four’s music that Entertainment captures perfectly and distills into 11 amazing postpunk bangers (there are actually 12 songs on the album, but we’ll get to that in a bit).  I remember first hearing the songs on this album years after they were recorded, years after new wave and postpunk and post postpunk, and even through the tinny headphones on my cassette Walkman, the power of this band was undeniable, from the grind of the first guitar chords (Ether) 

That’s the album’s opener, Ether. It’s a particularly good example of Gang of Four’s potent mix of musicianship and message. From the start, the band members wanted to avoid rock band cliches— vocalist Jon King had no interest in sappy love songs or party anthems, and guitarist Andy Gill wanted to ditch traditional rock posturing in favor of loud angular guitar combined with techniques he learned from listening to dub reggae. Bassist Dave Allen and drummer Hugo Burnham were also invested in the idea of Gang of Four being something different, something innovative. Even the band name was left of center— it referred to the leaders of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, pulled from a news billboard spotted by the band when they were driving around town. The name fit the band’s philosophical bent and political sympathies, which they were unafraid to commit to paper in the lyrics King and Gill penned. Ether, for instance, directly references the conflict known as The Troubles that was occurring in Northern Ireland at the time the song was written, and juxtaposes references to oppression and torture with British citizens singing about the good life, oblivious to the struggles of their Northern neighbors. Ether also introduces several elements that would be repeated throughout the album: call and response lyrics, Gill’s use of the melodica— which is a handheld reed instrument with an attached keyboard that sounds a lot like an accordion—  and the incredible rhythm section. I especially enjoy how Burnham’s drumming slows down and speeds up throughout— it makes the song feel slightly out of control, like it could collapse at any moment. It’s an incredible start to the album, and a foretaste of what’s to come. (Ether again)

Natural’s Not In It feels a bit more conventional than the opener— a bit of a breather as a track two. The guitar riffs are simpler and the drums are in the pocket, which bring Jon King’s vocals to the forefront. The opening lines— The problem of leisure/what to do for pleasure/ideal love/a new purchase—sets up one of Gang of Four’s central themes: we have become consumed by our possessions, and the act of purchasing more stuff has replaced, well, living. Even worse— the powers that be know about our addiction to things, and use it to exploit and control us. Pretty heady stuff for a pop song, maybe, but Gang of Four knew the best way to make a message stick in your head was to give it to you while you were dancing…or at least vigorously bobbing your head. And it works here— like gangbusters. (Natural’s Not in It)

Damaged Goods was Gang of Four’s first single, and the first song of theirs I immediately loved. It starts in arresting fashion: for the first ten seconds Gill and Allen trade blurts of guitar, and then Burnham provides a furious drumroll to lead into the song proper. The band then proceeds to lay down what may be the funkiest groove they ever recorded. Over it, Jon King sings about his girl troubles— but since this is Gang of Four, it’s not your standard relationship blues. (Damaged Goods)

When we get to the bridge, which Andy Gill sings, the title of the song becomes clear— Gill is singing about his girlfriend or sexual conquest as if she is a commodity, just another purchase. The band got the idea from a sign in a supermarket that proclaimed “a change will do you good.” In Gang of Four’s eyes, commerce has enveloped everything…even love. (Damaged Goods, bridge)

And one more thing about that drum beat on the bridge— it sure sounds a lot like a certain 1979 smash single, doesn’t it? (My Sharona)

Return the Gift immediately follows Damaged Goods, and it’s the best one-two punch on the whole album. Gill’s zigzag guitar riff leads into the song, which features some incredible bass work by Dave Allen. Allen, who passed away in April of last year, was one of my all-time favorite bass guitarists, and when he left Gang of Four after their second album, the quality of their work clearly suffered. All of Allen’s bass lines seem to have a huge bottom to them, and here he plays what feels like a complicated riff with such dexterity that it sounds effortless (Return the Gift)

On Return the Gift, the topic at hand isn’t love but labor. However, the thematic thrust of the lyrics aren’t remarkably different— here, your hard work, your blood and sweat is what’s for sale. As King sings— It’s on the market/you’re on the price list. I think most of us have worked at a job at one point in our lives where we didn’t feel appreciated, where, as Bob Seger so passionately sang about only a year earlier— we felt like a number. That gives Return the Gift a resonance that surpasses some of Gang of Four’s  more cerebral tracks, especially in the song’s last few minutes. After a particularly messy Gill guitar solo that I really love, King and Gill chant together; please send me evenings and weekends. They repeat the phrase over and over, as Allen pogos on his bass and Gill provides sharp guitar licks while King adds queasy dabs of melodica. I know they are probably talking about an employee requesting to work evenings and weekends, but I’ve always heard it as someone pleading for the little free time they can get from their employer, for those few moments where they can climb off the hamster wheel and feel human again. It ranks as one of the most powerful moments in all of Gang of Four’s discography. (Return the Gift, ending)


Guns Before Butter closes side 1. It’s a furious track, which matches the lyrics that reference both Nazi Germany and governments that care more about their military than their people. It also has my favorite guitar work on the album. The bass and lead dance around each other in complicated patterns. I don’t know what Gill’s playing— it doesn’t even sound like a riff—instead, it’s jagged squiggles of guitar that are all over the place, and I love it, as it matches the desperate tenor of the song perfectly.  Side 1 of Entertainment has no weak tracks, and is on my short list of best album sides of the 1970’s. (Guns Before Butter)  

I Found That Essence Rare may be the poppiest song on Entertainment! The guitars have a nice motorik chug to them, King sings like he’s covering a Beatles song, and the chorus— which references a perfume ad King saw— is very catchy. It feels much shorter than it’s 3 minutes and change running time, and opens side two with a great deal of promise. (I Found That Essence Rare)

Unfortunately, Glass is a dud, and ends the string of excellent songs on this album. It feels like Gang of Four by the numbers— the guitar riffs don’t stand out, the lyrics aren’t memorable, and there doesn’t seem to be much passion behind the vocals. It’s the kind of song that sounds like it was used to fill out a side 2. At least it’s short. It’s followed by Contact, which is better, but not as strong as the songs on side 1. I do like how the choruses collapse into a single bass note at the end of them, something the Minutemen frequently do on their songs. And that’s also how the song ends. At Home He’s A Tourist follows Contact, and it’s a definite step up. Gill’s guitar work on the verses is all squawks and pulled notes, while Allen barrels along— and then the choruses have a danceable groove, which matches the lyrics on the chorus: Out on the disco floor/they make their profit/from the things they sell/to help you cob off. Again, sex and commerce and being genuine verses being a phony, or in this case, a tourist. A very punk sentiment, perhaps, and it is appropriate that it ends in a punk -like repeat of a single chord. (At Home He’s A Tourist)

After the moody 5:05 (no notes), we reach the album’s closer, Anthrax. Titled “Love Like Anthrax” on the original album, it is often shortened to just Anthrax on re-releases and compilations. Anthrax is a difficult song for me to talk about without sounding like a fanboy, as it is my favorite Gang of Four song and a song I have loved as long as I’ve been familiar with the band. It was overhearing this song at a party, picking out the waves of distortion at the beginning through the conversation hum, sounding all the world like a tuning fork volume pitched into the red, that perked up my ears and made me want to check this band out in the first place. I cannot think of a song that is more quintessentially Gang of Four than Anthrax. If you love guitar distortion and feedback, this is the song for you, as the first minute and a half is nothing but distortion and feedback, followed by the lead guitar cutting out entirely, giving the verses to Burnham’s tribal drumming and Allen’s thudding bass riff. (Anthrax, beginning)

King’s first spoken line— woke up this morning, desperation am— sounds like poetry, and Allen’s spoken monologue about why rock bands shouldn’t write about love is perfect. As Jon King would later write: This was the first song Andy & I wrote where we felt we’d got to where we wanted to be. I love the split screen feel to the song, the return to distortion and feedback in the bridge, the way the song just drums to a halt. Anthrax is not only an excellent closer to a classic album, it is one of the best album closers of all time. (Anthrax)

Great debut albums were not the only things happening in 1979. Several long-established musical acts leveled up in ‘79, while others faced the end of their careers. A few bands sought relevance by incorporating the musical trends of the time, but even those trends didn’t stay still, as styles and subgenres found themselves at a crossroads at the end of the seventies. It was an interesting year for rock and roll’s dinosaurs, who proved the old guard wasn’t dead just yet. (Arrow Through Me)

There are two albums generally considered to be high water marks in Supertramp’s career: 1974’s Crime of the Century…and 1979’s Breakfast in America. Breakfast In America was Supertramp’s surprise pop breakthrough— guitarist Roger Hodgson said the band suspected the album would be huge, but I doubt anyone else did. Prior to Breakfast, Supertramp only had two top 40 hits in the US, and nothing in the Top 10. They weren’t even considered pop by many listeners— Crime of the Century is often cited as a progressive rock album, and much of Supertramp’s early work leans in that direction. Breakfast in America changed all that. Anchored by a trio of Roger Hodgson compositions, Breakfast in America rocketed up the charts almost as soon as it was released in March of 79, reaching number 1 on the album chart by the middle of May. I remember songs from the album being all over the radio that summer.. The Logical Song was instantly catchy, with bitterly clever lyrics and insistent saxophone by John Helliwell, which enters the song like someone banging on your front door in the middle of the night. The title track is smartass German Beer Hall music, with great bits of trombone high in the mix. But it’s Take the Long Way Home that was my favorite from the get-go. Filled with moody piano and lonely harmonica, Take the Long Way Home is, according to Hodgson, a meditation on fame, and the ultimately superficial nature of success. Ironic, then, that the band was splintering at the same time they were finally getting their due commercially. Hogson said he knew when Supertramp toured later in 79 that the internal tensions that had simmered for years between band members were finally too much to contend with. He would only stay with Supertramp for one more album before leaving for a solo career. I swear you can hear this in the music, a sense of resignation that lives between the keyboard notes.  Supertramp would have a couple more top twenty singles, including one off an album fittingly titled Famous Last Words, but Take the Long Way Home feels like the last great song in Supertramp’s career, off their last great album (Take the Long Way Home)

The last album in David Bowie’s celebrated Berlin Trilogy, Lodger, was released in May of 1979. I’m not going to say much about the album on this episode, but I will before long, as this is three albums and Lodger is part of a trilogy that feels more important the further we move away from it. I do want to talk for a moment about Lodger’s first quote unquote single, Boys Keep Swinging, although no song off the album charted on the hot 100 in the US and RCA refused to release Boys as a single stateside due to its controversial lyrics. Boys Keep Swinging, to me, feels like an outlier in Bowie’s catalog. Most Bowie songs appear tightly crafted and controlled, even when the music moves in unexpected directions. Not so with Boys. Something about the song feels off balance, off its moorings. Perhaps it’s because the artists on the track decided to swap instruments, even though some of their performances had to be scrapped. Perhaps it’s Adrian Belew’s chaotic guitar solo, for which he was given little direction. And perhaps it's Bowie himself, trying to keep the song on track while the music around him threatens to spin out of control. I love Brian Eno’s carnival keyboard, Bowie’s over the top vocal, and the way the song careens around at the end. It’s the catchiest thing Bowie had recorded in the last three years save the classic song Heroes, and pointed where Bowie would be going next, moving away from experimentation and towards pure pop. It’s also one of the best songs of 1979. (Boys Keep Swinging)

I have always found Led Zeppelin confounding. They were played to death on classic rock radio in the 80’s, a good chunk of their work is ripped off (often without credit) from other artists, and the stories that circulated about the band’s antics and debauchery while touring are enough to turn your hair white. Still, there is a primal power to Zeppelin’s best work, especially on their early albums, that is unmatched by most of their peers. In Through the Out Door is not early Led Zeppelin— indeed, it would be their last studio album— and the Zeppelin formula was wearing a little thin. I think the band sensed that, as many of the songs on In Through the Out Door come across as attempts to stay relevant and timely. There’s a lot less heavy blues rock and a lot more synthesizer, which does make it sound like 1979, even if it doesn’t always sound like Zeppelin. The track I want to highlight on In Through the Out Door is Fool In the Rain, which is my wife’s favorite song on the album, and one of her favorite songs, period. If Robert Plant wasn’t singing on this song, I wouldn’t know it was Zeppelin— it swings like Steely Dan to my ears, which is funny, because my wife hates Steely Dan. It’s also one of the cheeriest sounding songs in Zeppelin’s catalog— especially the breakdown in the middle, which plays like an island beach party, complete with maracas, a guiro, and a marimba…or maybe that’s a steel drum. Anyway, that’s pretty good for a song that’s lyrically an aw shucks version of Genesis’ later single, Misunderstanding— what is it with all these guys getting mixed up standing out in the rain? I can't help thinking of my wife every time this song pops up on the radio or in a supermarket, and that makes it pretty damn good. I often wonder what direction Zeppelin would have gone if Bonham hadn't died— like The Long Run by The Eagles, also released in 1979, In Through the Out Door sort of felt like an ending the moment it was released. (Fool In the Rain)

One of the musical linchpins of my childhood was disco. I learned how to do The Hustle in elementary school gym class, sang along with KC and the Sunshine Band when they came on my tinny transistor radio, and got a copy of Saturday Night Fever on vinyl one memorable Christmas. But by 1979, a lot of people were tired of disco. Too many borderline novelty songs perhaps, too many cookie cutter retreads foisted on the market to cash in before the hype cooled. And if punk killed prog, as the general wisdom contends, it definitely had a hand in disco's demise, too— as we have seen already, the new sounds of 79 were much harder and edgier than the familiar thump emanating from the dance floor. Still, despite the haters, disco was capable of producing some magic when placed in the right hands. Just three months prior to the now infamous disco demolition night, where a large crate of disco records were blown up in the outfield at Chicago’s Comiskey Park and a near riot ensued, Blondie hit number 1 with their best ever song, the very clearly disco Heart of Glass. Heart of Glass had two things going for it most disco songs didn’t have— Debbie Harry’s lilting vocal and the pulse from that Roland synthesizer, oscillating beneath the rest of the music like something beamed down from space. The other synths sound almost joyous on the bridge, the too cool for school harmonies fit well, and the whole damn song just hums. Blondie never did another song that sounded anything like this…I wish they did— but they certainly proved disco could provide the framework for more than good time dance beats, as many other artists have discovered during disco’s resurgence in the twenty first century. (Heart of Glass) 

There are three John Stewarts, even if they ultimately inhabit the same body. The first was a key member of the 60’s folk act The Kingston Trio, crafting the kinds of songs that sounded like throwbacks to an earlier time. They were popular and influential, but the rise of the Beatles, Stones, and psychedelia hastened their breakup. The second John Stewart was a solo artist who had a string of albums that got some critical acclaim but didn’t really sell well. And the third was the guy who wrote “Gold.” Gold is the show pony off Stewart’s 1979 album Bombs Away Dream Babies, and his deliberate attempt to craft a hit song. It worked.  Gold made its way up the charts through the summer of 79, peaking at number 5 in August. Gold has two secret weapons that drive it— Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. Stewart had reached out to Buckingham to see if he would produce his album, due to an admiration for Rumours. Lindsay told Stewart he was too busy to completely produce, but ended up all over Bombs Away Dream Babies anyway, playing guitar and providing backup vocals. He drug Stevie along to sing on a few tracks, including Gold. Gold is all drum thump and smoky keyboards until Stevie comes in on the chorus. Then the song opens up, Stevie sings along on the second verse, the keyboards shimmer,  and the magic slowly starts to seep in. By the time Lindsay starts playing instantly recognizable Buckingham licks (as opposed to Buckingham Nicks ha ha), Stewart has a hit song about trying to write a hit song. All of Bombs Away Dream Babies is worth checking out— it’s been reissued as half of a cd compilation titled The Best of John Stewart— but Gold is the highlight here. Despite Stewart's later complaints to the contrary, it’s the best song Stewart ever wrote, and one of my favorite songs of 1979. (Gold)

Which brings us to the second album in our three album deep dive (album 2): Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk. Tusk was Fleetwood Mac’s attempt to follow up 1977’s multiplatinum smash Rumours, an album generally considered to be one of the greatest albums of all time. The band spent a million dollars— at that time a record— to make Tusk, and were determined to create something that sounded nothing like it’s predecessor. They succeeded in spades— Tusk is messier than Rumors, quirkier than Rumors, and much, much weirder than Rumors. It’s also (warning, hot take dead ahead) better than Rumours. Don’t get me wrong— the critics and fans are right…Rumours is a perfect album. But there’s something about Tusk’s sprawling, fascinating hodgepodge that strikes a chord with me that few other albums ever have. It is one of my forever favorite albums, and a true masterpiece. (Over and Over).

Tusk opens with  Christine McVie’s, “Over and Over.” It’s an odd song for a first track— Over and Over is one of the smoothest songs in the Mac discography, and is so mellow it makes the relatively low key Monday Morning (which was the opener for 1975’s self titled album) sound like a rave up. Mick Fleetwood’s drumming is slow and slower, making a slapping noise like a sneaker on a rain-slicked sidewalk. Lindsay Buckingham provides a gentle guitar accompaniment, Christine McVie lays down some pretty, but subtle keyboards, and then fills the rest of the song with her voice. Over and Over, like a number of songs on Tusk, is a love song about longing, but it’s the most undesperate longing imaginable, tinged with hope and almost a sense of amazement that the writer is in this predicament (waiting for a lover) at all. McVie conveys all this with her lovely voice, which centers the song and drives it forward. Then Lindsay and Stevie bring their gorgeous harmonies in, swirling around Christine’s lead. Lindsay turns his guitar riff into something more intricate but just as gentle on the outro, adding to the layers of languid beauty Over and Over emanates. That’s what this song is— chill and incredibly pretty, and it eases you into the album in expert fashion. Over and Over is one of my favorite songs on the album, my favorite Christine McVie song on the album, and maybe my favorite McVie song, period. (Over and Over)

If Over and Over makes you think you know what kinds of songs are going to be on Tusk, track 2, The Ledge, will dissuade you of that notion pretty quickly. The Ledge is short and spastic and more of a statement of purpose than a song. Buckingham plays a flatulent sounding guitar riff while he talks about counting on his fingers and counting on his toes. The harmonies feel at cross purposes with Lindsay’s lead vocal, there’s whispering, and Lindsay bragging that the woman who has spurned him (likely the woman singing along in the background of this song) will never make it on her own. The Ledge is odd and jarring, and it’s supposed to be— Buckingham wanted everyone to know, right out of the gate, that Tusk was going to be many things…but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Rumours. (The Ledge). 

The title song on Tusk may have been the first single released from the album (and we’ll get to Tusk in a bit), but Sara was the biggest hit. Like Over and Over, there’s a sparseness here, a sense of space. The song may be driven by Christine McVie’s keyboards and Stevie Nicks piano, but that’s not what immediately grabs my attention. It has to be John McVie— listening to his bass line in “Sara” would be one of the bullet items on my Coping Card. It’s both insistent and lulling, perfectly matching with the lilt of Stevie Nicks’ voice, her repeated piano chords. Ostensibly about a love triangle of sorts (according to Nicks), Sara feels to me more about the end of a relationship, whether that be a friendship or a romance. The resigned and wistful nature of the music is matched by Nick’s lyrics: Drowning in the sea of love/Where everyone would love to drown/
But now it's gone/ It doesn't matter what for/ When you build your house/Then call me home. Sara was the first thing I ever heard off Tusk, and I still get a little rush of nostalgia every time I experience it. It deserved to get to #7 on the Billboard top 40, and is a remarkably effective side one closer. (Sara)

Like many of my favorite albums, Tusk is a double album. I’ve always appreciated the heft and variety a double album provides, the one-offs and experiments bands are open to trying when offered the chance to stretch out over two discs. Lindsay Buckingham’s contributions to side 2 of Tusk amply display Fleetwood Mac’s willingness to mix things up. “What Makes You Think I’m the One” is a pop stomper, with the whomp of Fleetwood’s drums recorded through a boombox, making it sound like he’s playing in someone’s basement. “That’s All for Everyone” is pretty and accessible, with some delicate kalimba notes and shimmery-sounding vocals heavy with reverb. And my favorite Buckingham creation on side 2, Not That Funny, sees Lindsay aping The Talking Heads’ David Byrne. The vocal performance is fantastic— to be fair, Bryne usually sounds alien and quirky, while Buckingham here sounds slightly ridiculous— but I still love it. The music doesn’t sound like the polyrhythms Talking Heads were experimenting with at the time…but it does sound a little like the herky jerky Heads of Little Creatures and True Stories. Maybe there was a little cross pollination of influences?  Like the earlier The Ledge, this is a left turn from what came before it, and is tonally surprising and refreshing. The unpredictable nature of Tusk is one of its greatest strengths, and Buckingham is truly the court jester of this enterprise. It’s possible you might find Tusk weird and off-putting…but I guarantee you, it is never boring. (Not That Funny).

The other two songs on Tusk’s side 2 are Stevie Nicks compositions, and both nod at earlier Nicks hits on Fleetwood Mac’s 1975 self-titled album. Storms is delicate and spare, much like Landslide, and even uses the title as metaphor the same as its predecessor. Storms is a bit more understated though, especially the guitars. Like all of Tusk, the background harmonies (by Lindsay and Christine) are superb. Sisters of the Moon is very Rhiannon-esqe, moody and driving, and employs witchy Stevie to even greater effect than Rhiannon did. I’m pretty sure I could pick Lindsay’s signature guitar sound out of a lineup, but nowhere more than his needling riff that runs underneath Stevie’s voice in “Sisters of the Moon.” And the howling guitar solo at the end? Put a pin in that one, because it rivals a few other great solos from 1979 we will get to in a bit. (Sisters of the Moon)

Side 3 of Tusk starts strong, with enjoyable compositions by both Nicks and Buckingham. Stevie’s Angel is one hell of a chipper song for being a breakup number. Nicks doesn’t sound broken up here, more nostalgic. And the music bounces along— the keyboards are especially bright. Stevie belts the vocals like she’s in a bar band, a nice counterpoint to the actual words:  So I close my eyes softly/'Til I become that part of the wind/That we all long for sometime/And to those that I love, like a ghost through a fog/Like a charmed hour and a haunted song. Angel continues a string of great Nicks songs on Tusk, with the best still to come (Angel).

Buckingham’s contribution to side 3, “That’s Enough For Me” is a sprint to the finish— Lindsay playing as fast as he can, while John McVie’s bass keeps up ably. It’s all of a minute and a half, but I never skip it. Angel and That’s Enough for Me provide a happy respite between the moodier Sisters of the Moon and Brown Eyes,  Christine McVie’s first song since side 1. (That’s Enough for Me)

Speaking of Brown Eyes…Christie McVie initially said she wrote it about her dog, but later admitted it was about her then boyfriend, the Beach Boys Dennis Wilson. Brown Eyes is far from a cheery love song— it’s moody and has a minor key feel, which are always selling points in my book.  I love the metronomic percussion, the pretty keyboards contrasting with the weird sounds coming out of Lindsay’s guitar— it almost sounds like a different stringed instrument due to the way he bends the notes. And McVie’s vocals are perfect— especially the wonderful sha la las on the wordless chorus. Brown Eyes might be the second-best McVie song on Tusk, but it’s also my second favorite McVie song, period. And if you’re curious, You Make Loving Fun is #3. (Brown Eyes)

While I usually appreciate the distinct album sides that vinyl listening provides, Tusk is an album that actually works better on CD. That’s because the weakest part of the album, from Never Make Me Cry through Honey Hi, stretches from the end of Side 3 to the beginning of side 4. It’s easier to skip over those tracks (which are fine in their own right) when they are next to each other. This dead spot on the album is followed by Stevie Nicks’ Beautiful Child, her final contribution to Tusk. Stevie’s quintet of breakup songs on this album— “Sara,”  “Storms,” “Angel,” and “Beautiful Child” are her greatest achievement on any Fleetwood Mac album. “Dreams” might be Stevie’s best song, but Beautiful Child is 1B. “Beautiful Child” is my favorite Stevie Nicks vocal performance. Never has she sounded both more vulnerable and more resigned. The simple, repeated piano riff is gorgeous, and both Lindsay and Christine provide some of the best harmonies they ever sang. Like “Dreams” this is a perfect song— perfectly sung, perfectly arranged, perfectly mixed. This isn’t a song filled with instruments, this is a song filled with voices— wrapping around each other, echoes of longing and pained resolve. Indeed, Beautiful Child is arguably my favorite song about romantic longing ever recorded. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking, and is the emotional apex of Tusk. (Beautiful Child)

“Tusk”, Lindsey Buckingham’s title song,  might be the first thing anyone thinks about when the subject of this album comes up— it barely loses to “Sara” as far as chart ranking (Sara rose as high an number 7, while Tusk stalled at number 8). However, Tusk was much more popular in England, lapping Sara on the UK charts (#6 to #37). It’s always going to be reduced in the public consciousness to ‘that song with the marching band on it,” but I’ve always loved it— the martial percussion, the paranoid lyrics, the oddness of the song. It’s almost Lindsay doing Captain Beefheart, and it might be one of the weirder songs to land in Billboards Top Ten. It is one final surprise on an album full of surprises, and a fitting end to our discussion here. Tusk (the album) might not be everyone’s cup of tea, and was never going to sell as well as the polished, aurally perfect Rumours did, but I’m glad Fleetwood Mac chose to make such a surprising, idiosyncratic follow up. It is my favorite album of 1979. (Tusk)

I highlighted Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo on Sisters of the Moon a few moments ago, but his was not the only great solo of 79. Two of my favorite guitar solos ever also dropped that same year— one soaring and chill-inducing, the other smooth and incredibly pretty. Both are outros. The first comes courtesy of a guitar god, Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour. Much of Gilmour’s work deserves praise, but it’s Comfortably Numb we need to talk about here. No matter what you think of The Wall— and some fans and critics think it’s bloated, somewhat histrionic, and overrated—the last 1:42 of Comfortably Numb redeems the whole project. After trading sung verses and choruses about alienation and the inability to feel, Gilmour provides a guitar solo that is all about feeling. It speeds up, it slows down, it hammers the same note, it arpeggios to the skies. It feels like the saddest and loneliest sound in the world, as if all the emotion the protagonist of the song was feeling and couldn't express suddenly erupted out of him, filling every available space. It never fails to give me goosebumps, to raise the hairs on my neck. Gilmour has provided great solos on all the classic Floyd albums (and I’ll never understand why they truncated the solo on Pigs (Three Different Ones)) but this is next level. It is, in my opinion, the greatest guitar solo of all time. (Comfortably Numb)

For a band that has one of the top five bestselling albums of all time, a lot of people sure do hate the Eagles. Blame California hedonism maybe, or the dude from that Coen Brothers movie, or even a backlash to the Laurel Canyon sound that dominated radio in the 70’s, but it seems that every person that doesn’t possess a copy of The Eagles Greatest Hits Vol 1 is currently writing an article, tweet, or Facebook post about how much the Eagles suck. I not only own the first volume of that greatest hits album, I also own volume two, so you know where I stand. I’m not going to try to defend the band here, or the uptight, self-involved band members— I just want to talk about one Eagles song and more specifically one Eagles guitar solo that I have always loved. I Can’t Tell You Why is new bassist Timothy B Schmit’s contribution to 1979’s The Long Run, an album that sounds like a band running out of gas. I Can’t Tell You Why was the album’s big ballad, and the third single released after Heartache Tonight and the Long Run. The song gives off night at the Prom vibes— Don Henley plays a drum beat like he’s lulling you to sleep, and Joe Walsh’s Hammond organ notes ground this song firmly in the late seventies. Schmidt’s vocal performance is fine— it moves the song along and isn’t embarrassing. But it’s the guitars that make everything work here— Schmidt’s warm, steady bass notes and Frey’s sharp lead guitar fills. Frey provides a take of what’s to come on the outro with a lazy sounding flurry of notes on the bridge, then cedes to Schmidt’s vocal. But once Schmidt stops singing, Frey starts soloing again. He starts slow, then makes his riff more convoluted, going around and around in circles while Schmidt’s bass never wavers. It’s far from complicated, but it doesn’t matter— It feels like dancing, it feels like spinning slowly on the floor beneath twinkling lights with the person you are madly in love with nestled against your shoulder. Yeah, maybe these guys were prickly and egotists and had problems relating to women, but for one moment, they made me forget that and let me just bliss out. I Can’t Tell You Why is the prettiest song The Eagles ever recorded, and my favorite from their catalog. (I Can’t Tell You Why)

Which brings us to the final album in our look at 1979 (album 3), Candy-O, the sophomore outing by The Cars. While their 1978 debut felt like a new wave record rooted in classic rock radio, Candy-O sees The Cars amping up the keyboards, icing down their melodies, and using emotional distance as a thematic statement. It is unapologetically alternative, more concerned with vibe than accessibility, new wave groove over hummable choruses. Because this is The Cars is is still catchy and inviting, and the emphasis on attitude over earworm is one I find incredibly appealing. I really like most of the albums in The Cars discography, but Candy-O is the one I love. (Let’s Go)

That’s the album’s opening track, Let’s Go. It’s a great opener, with lot’s of catchy singalong energy, the Cars trademark semi-shouted background harmony, and handclaps. It’s all a little disingenuous, though, because this isn’t really how the rest of the album is going to go. Let’s Go certainly points to where The Cars have been, and it has a similar drive to their singles off the self-titled debut. But everything after it will gradually get edgier and a little more bloodless. By the time we reach the last song on side one, The Cars are going to sound like a markedly different band. (Let’s Go again)

The Cars usually split lead vocal duties between rhythm guitarist Ric Ocasek (the tall and gangly one) and bassist Benjamin Orr (the cool-looking one, as I tagged him when I was 13).  “It’s All I Can Do” is Orr’s first solo lead, and the album’s second single. Orr is definitely the smoother, less quirky singer, which is why he’s the guy that will be tapped for their hit single Drive years later. Here, he provides a fine vocal, but his work is overshadowed by three things: Gregg Hawkes sharp keyboards, which are all over this album, David Robinson’s drums, which are very high in the mix here, and that weird squeak noise throughout the whole song, like someone’s rubbing their tennis shoes against a gym floor. It’s a bit understated for a single, I suppose, which is why it barely missed the Top 40 on the Billboard chart. It’s also lyrically a lot more desperate than Let’s Go, which I appreciate (It’s All I Can Do)

Double Life is where things start to get weird. The song starts with Ocasek playing a simple repeated hypnotic guitar riff over Robinson’s skeletal drum beat. Ocasek sings about his back seat rumble and his front seat wife in a disaffecting manner, leading to a second verse where the keyboards and bass are a little more noticeable. Things eventually build, but it’s the minimalist beginning that sticks in my head. Double Life is claustrophobic and tight, even with Elliott Easton laying down a blistering solo (albeit a short one) and Hawkes providing great wordless harmonies near the end. Like Ocasek sings— Alienation is the craze, and that’s how Double Life feels— outside, apart, different. It’s just the start of a three song thesis on icy cool that would prove The Cars new wave bona fides once and for all. (Double Life)

Shoo Bee Doo is all of 1:38 long, but oh those 90 seconds! All ominous keyboards and Ocasek’s echoed vocals, it sounds much more like a song by the band Suicide (a band whose second album Ocasek produced) than it does The Cars. Ocasek barks angry bitter lyrics directed at a lover, while the music swirls around him like a nightmarish Greek chorus. This isn’t pop— this is anti-pop, and the strangest song the Cars ever recorded. (Shoo Bee Doo)

Guitarist Elliott Easton is one of the most underrated guitarists in rock. On this album, he gets a handful of opportunities to showcase his talent, and Candy-O is one of them. The first thing we might hear in the song is Ocasek’s rhythm guitar, but it’s Easton’s fills and Orr’s deadpan vocal that stick. And then Easton lays down a manic skittering solo on the bridge that takes Candy-o to another level. After Drive, I think this is Orr’s best performance, and ends side 1 of Candy-O (the album) on one hell of a high note. (Candy-O)

Night Spots is the Territorial Pissings of Candy-O— like the Nirvana song that leads off side 2 of Nevermind, it is a criminally underrated rocker, a song that is all propulsion and drive. Ocasek has never been so dialed in as a vocalist— even on a good day, he can come across as a bit aloof—but here he feels totally in control of the song, the keyboards and guitars orbiting his lyric. And orbit they do— Hawkes provides an instantly memorable keyboard riff, while Easton’s guitar runs zigzags beneath the surface. Easton again rips off another great solo. I love the diving bell sound effects and the processed harmonies that come in late in the song, Ocasek’s yelps, and how much this song moves. Rarely did the Cars groove this hard, or ever would again. For my money, the string of songs from Double Life through Night Spots is the high point of The Cars’ career, and Exhibit A in their case for inclusion in any list of the greatest new wave bands of all time. (Night Spots)

Lust for Kicks, like a number of songs on Candy-O, feels more stripped down than their debut. Lust for Kicks is mostly an insistent drum beat and Hawkes carnival-like keyboards, over which Orr intones slightly obtuse lyrics about a couple in love:  He's got his own dumb waiter/ She's reading one fell swoop/He gets around to it later/She fills the scoop. Orr sings the whole thing in a bemused tone, adding to the quirky nature of the track. It might be one of the more lightweight numbers on Candy-O, but it’s a great change of pace. Candy-O is expertly sequenced, and Lust for Kicks placement in the middle of side 2 is no exception. (Lust for Kicks).

After another high-energy rocker, Got a Lot on My Head, Candy-O closes with Dangerous Type. The Cars often opted for moody closers (see All Mixed Up on the debut or the self-titled track on Heartbeat City), and Dangerous Type fits this pattern. Like those other two closers, Dangerous Type takes its time getting rolling, starting as a pair of intersecting guitar riffs and a simple (but catchy) drum beat. Ocasek follows with a clipped vocal, and Greg Hawkes’ keyboard finally shows up after the first verse ends. Easton eventually adds a energetic, impromptu-sounding solo on the bridge, leading to the glorious last two minutes of the track. The keyboard patterns gets more complex, the background harmonies get run through a vocoder, a little bell like noise adds to the mix, and David Robinson provides some of the most energetic drumming on the whole album. Everything goes to 11, leading to a rousing, yet surprisingly pretty finish. It’s the Cars version of the Big sound, something they like to save til the end, I suppose. It works incredibly well here, making Dangerous Type one of the Cars most memorable tracks, and one of my personal favorites. (Dangerous Type)

One more trip around the dance floor before we turn the lights off on 1979 and all head home.  Rupert Holmes might now be writing eccentric mystery novels, but he spent the end of the seventies crafting one of the greatest, and most ridiculous Yacht Rock songs in history. Escape (the Pina Cola Song) is tissue-paper thin but incredibly catchy, built on a reggae-like drum beat and a minimal wheedling guitar riff. The focus is on Holmes’ lyrics, as he tells the story of how he was tired of his lady, and looking for excitement in the personal ads. We all know the letter he found: If you like pina coladas/getting caught in the rain/if you’re not into yoga/if you have half a brain/if you like making love at midnight/in the dew of the cape/then I’m the love that you looked for/write to me and escape. Our hapless anti-hero admits he didn’t think about his lady— I know it sounds kind of mean, he tells us, with a shrug of his shoulders. He answers back to the ad, of course. His breathless response is more of the same (yes I like pina coladas, etc), and functions as our second chorus. The big meet up between our clandestine would-be lovers takes place, and like the ultimate Three’s Company episode, it turns out the girl who’s been writing Rupert is, um, his own lovely lady. Does she reach out and brain him with a nearby beer stein?  Does she ask for the key to their apartment, or draw up the divorce papers on the bar top? Not exactly. Instead, she says, and I quote, Oh , it’s you. Then, according to Rupert, they (clears throat) laugh for a minute, and suddenly realize that if they both dig the same things, maybe they are each other’s one true love. It is one of the biggest eye rolls in the history of music lyrics, yet Escape was such an undeniable earworm that it rose up the Billboard charts, finally reaching number 1 in December of 1979. Escape (the Pina Colada Song) was the last number one song of the 1970s. (Escape)

Which brings us to the end of our journey through 1979. 79 was not only a seminal year in my life, it was a watershed year for popular music, a year on the brink of the synthesized, postpunk Eighties, a last gasp for some, an exciting beginning for others. Maybe no other song embodies this better than the song I will leave you with, KC and the Sunshine Band’s Please Don’t Go. Although it was released as a single in July of 1979 it took a little while to make it up the charts, finally reaching number 1 on January 5th of 1980. It was the first number one song of 1980 and the Eighties, and the last number 1 song of Harry Wayne Casey’s career. As we let that great bass line and the swirling synths take us out remember, you can buy all of the albums I talked about today at your local record store, at Amazon or at other online retailers. You can also stream them at Spotify, Apple music, You Tube music or the streaming service of your choice. Thank you so much for taking the time to listen to my podcast. Script and all sound editing was done by me, Greg Martin. Continued thanks to Andrea Coussens for art direction and design. I'll be back again soon. Til then, try to be at least average to each other. (Please Don’t Go)