Let me tell you something about myself, dear reader; when the first word that comes to mind when I hear a band is “zany,” I reach for my revolver. And such is the case with Oingo Boingo, the New Wave band who turned “wacky” into an aesthetic and in so doing charmed the skinny neckties off a whole lot of people back in the 1980s.
Under the leadership of Danny “I Make Soundtracks Now” Elfman, Oingo Boingo created a very skewed ska- and world music-tinged New Wave that put the emphasis on whiplash, herky-jerky tempos, quirky arrangements, and nonconventional scales and harmony. If your tastes run to the off-kilter and you like a vocalist who does his level best to annoy, I recommend Oingo Boingo wholeheartedly.
Rock critic Robert Christgau dismissed Oingo Boingo with the words, “These guys combine the worst of Sparks with the worst of the Circle Jerks.” Me, what I hear when I listen to 1989’s The Best of Oingo Boingo: Skeletons in the Closet is an admittedly mischievous mashup of other, better bands. The Cars, Devo, Wall of Voodoo, Sparks, The English Beat and a whole slew of other New Wave outfits I never cared very much for to begin with all come to mind. All of which probably means I’m not the fairest judge of the merits of the album under review, but hey–I get paid big bucks to listen to records and proffer my opinion on them, and I guess it’s just Oingo Boingo’s lucky day.
Skeletons in the Closet collects 12 songs from the three LPs Oingo Boingo recorded during their tenure with A&M from 1981 to 1983, and makes as helpful an introduction to the ostensible charms of the band’s early work as any of the aforementioned studio LPs. I’m listening to it on free Spotify, and it’s hardly an auspicious sign that I find myself looking forward to the commercials.
Lead vocalist Elfman sounds like a hyperactive cross of Mark Mothersbaugh, Stan Ridgway, Russell Mael, and that unbearable kid in 10th grade study hall who would never stop with the goofy voices. The arrangements are flashy and overwrought; they practically scream attention deficit disorder. As for the songs hiding beneath all of the bric a brac, they don’t move me much; at their best, and I mean at their very best, they remind me of a very low-rent early Talking Heads. There’s no denying Elfman brings an impish sense of humor to the words, but when it comes to funny I’ll go with Sparks, Talking Heads, or Grand Funk Railroad (if you can’t laugh with ‘em, laugh at ‘em).
Which is not to say that Skeletons in the Closet doesn’t afford me some very small amount of honest pleasure. I like the David Byrne-like intelligence at work in “Private Life,” with its “This is my private life” being followed by “If you can find me/Come and get me out of here!” That said, the song might as well be by the Cars. And that goes double for “Little Girls”; behind its rather generic New Wave veneer lurks a truly perverse sentiment–Elfman likes little girls, well, because they don’t ask questions, but even he knows there’s something awful behind his predilections. “Isn’t this fun?” he sings. “Isn’t this what life’s all about?” he sings. “Isn’t this a dream come true?” he sings. “Isn’t this a nightmare too?” he sings.
But I keep running up against influences, and the suspicion that Elfman is a kind of pop mimeograph machine running off faded copies of other peoples’ originals. Strip away its world beat accoutrements and “Nasty Habits” is Devo right down to the whip; “Only a Lad” is the sound of the Cars colliding with Devo at the intersection of Wacky and Banal. “Wake Up (It’s 1984)” is a nightmare the Pet Shop Boys had one night and are trying to forget. “Insects” has weird appeal–I like the big percussion clamor–but between Elfman’s in-your-face vocals and the Red Hot Chili Peppers slap bass I hear a band aiming for strange for strangeness’ sake.
Beneath Elfman’s twisted vocals and the humorous lyrics “Whole Day Off” sounds like it came straight off a John Hughes movie soundtrack–”I’ll take it!” I can hear Mr. Sixteen Candles saying. “Every John Hughes film should have one sorta edgy tune!” “Nothing to Fear (But Fear Itself)” nearly drowns itself in horns and its funk sounds like it came out of a can. I almost get enthused when the song kicks into overdrive, but I keep hearing troubling overtones of Thomas Dolby, and can Rockwell be far behind?
“Nothing Bad Ever Happens to Me” is inoffensive enough; the vibes are a nice touch, the song has a nifty bounce, but I find myself agreeing with the guy who keeps asking, “Why should I care?” “Who Do You Want to Be” starts on a promising rock note, but quickly devolves into generic ska. And the lyrics are pure condescenscion (Okay Mr. Unique Character, you got me. I’m a sad conformist and I guess I do want to be like somebody on TV).
Am I being fair to poor Oingo Boingo, and to poor Danny Elfman who has never hurt anybody but me? No I’m not. But I detect in Oingo Boingo a distinct musical impulse that I find disagreeable to my impeccable good taste. They go out of their way–and I’m talking a long, long distance out of their way–to sound quirky, when they would be better served by reining it in.
They’re that kid in 10th grade study hall screaming for attention; he wants so badly to be liked he’ll do anything, and by so doing drives everybody out of the room. He possesses not a whit of subtlety; he’s a smart ass, sure, but he’s not smart enough to understand that throwing a lot of quirked-out vocals, “aren’t we strange” horn charts, ear-challenging arrangements, and other purely ornamental musical gewgaws at you can be, well, off-putting.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
