Just because everybody and his twitchy New Wave brother likes to go on about how Magazine’s 1978 LP Real Life is, like, one of thee finest examples of early post-punk, end of discussion, doesn’t mean I have to like it. Sure, the melodies are fetching and the musicianship is stellar, but I intend to argue, in this here review, that Real Life ain’t all that, for the simple reason that it’s slick as black ice. And I have a confederate who has my back in the personage of legendary muz-crit Robert Christgau, who swam against the currents of acclaim being garnered upon Real Life way back when by saying, and I quote, “Back in the old days we had a word for this kind of thing—pretentious.” He also labeled band leader Howard Devoto “the ultimate art twit” before tweaking Devoto’s English nose with the mean-spirited brush-off, “We hate you you little smarty.”
I should add that I like several of the songs on Real Life, which made England’s Top 30, bunches. Pretentious, sure, slick, for damn sure, but Real Life, which was released by Magazine (the band formed by Devoto after leaving the Buzzcocks in early 1977) featured some notable exceptions, including the raucous “Recoil” and the “so-glam-it positively-glitters” anthem “Burst.” The first could pass for punk because that’s what it is, while the latter is a pink monkey bird of a throwback to the days of Ziggy Stardust, et al.
Unfortunately Real Life also includes the insufferable “The Great Beautician in the Sky,” a carnival-like atrocity which I can find nothing positive to say about, except that I find Devoto’s imitation of a shit-faced git who just got off the merry-go-round and is about to hurl his fish and chips amusing indeed. And “Parade,” with its music school piano opening by Dave Formula and Devoto’s vocal affectations, irks. It’s not helped any by the limp saxophone solo by John McGeoch either.
As for the LP’s hit, “Shot by Both Sides,” it has punk propulsion but is too big and slick for words, what with the echo on Devoto’s vocals and the giant guitar riffs that sound like soundtrack music to me. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a bad song. I simply despise it for putting approximately 300 coats of varnish on all that cool punk grit. “My Tulpa” is medium bearable, but is similarly overproduced and pretentious and gives me the heebie jeebies because I can hear the dandified horde of synthfops prancing hard in its footsteps. “You can touch yourself anytime,” Devoto repeats over and over, which is true except this song doesn’t exactly put me in the mood. The ending, with McGeoch delivering on a real sax solo, is cool though. “Definitive Gaze” features a beguiling intro that mutates into what could almost pass for Kraut rock, that is until Devoto jumps in on vocals and the song almost flunks it’s A levels for failing to stick with what was working, i.e., a pretty good Neu! imitation. But wait! The caterwaul near the end saves the day, that and the way the song crashes back onto the Autobahn in a BMW stolen by the Baader-Meinhof Group.
“Motorcade” is a complex animal, veering as it does from its lugubrious opening to faster volumes, with Barry Adamson tossing in some stellar bass work. Then the song really takes off, amping up to hardcore speeds, with Martin Jackson on drums keeping the beat. Then, by God, it descends into a brief noise rock passage, followed by one cool guitar solo, and the only thing that bugs me are Formula’s keyboards, which are too goddamn pretty for this tune. “The Light Pours Out of Me” has its charms including its drums and bass opening, and the fact that McGeoch’s guitar doesn’t sound all swelled up on steroids like it does on “Shot by Both Sides.” In fact he plays one cool riff, and the drums are as steady as the drizzle on Brighton Beach. Meanwhile Devoto does nothing to fuck the song up, so there.
“Recoil” opens at warp speed with a wicked drum tattoo and some very distorted guitar that is awe inspiring, before picking up even more speed as Devoto jumps in. McGeoch then delivers on a vicious solo after which Devoto says simply, “Up,” before throwing himself back into the mayhem which ends with a cool stop and start between synth bleeps and drum crash. “Burst,” as I mentioned earlier, owes its existence (Devoto should be forced to pay royalties) to the glam era, what with its Mick Ronson guitar riffs and Brian Eno-like vocals. It’s a wonderful song, especially if you love glam the way I do, and I go into raptures over McGeoch’s glitterific solo, which harkens back to The Man Who Sold the World. And the very extended ending, in which McGeoch continues to play while Devoto repeats variations on “You will forget yourself,” is to die for. Hell, I upped the LP’s a full grade based on this baby alone.
Magazine. I never liked their name. There I said it. It brings the word “glossy” to mind, and that’s my problem with Real Life. It’s too fucking glossy for words, and as I said before, forces me to think about what would follow, namely synthpop and its horrifying crimes against music. Yeah, it’s possible I’m being too hard on Devoto and company. But I’m not the one who called him an art twit. That was Robert Christgau, and if you have any hate mail to send, address it to him.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B-
