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There’s a slight breeze coming in from the ocean, and neon lights are fizzing on across the bay. As the sun falls into the sea, glamorous night creatures step from water launches and out from under beach canopies. Waiters in white bow ties dispense luminous cocktails.  With the languid nonchalance of a man on his third Malibu, Lionel Richie beckons to us, offering to take us deep into the balmy nocturnal dream-world of pop, the night that never ends:

“Well, my friends the time has come / Raise the roof and have some fun / Throw away the work to be done / Let the music play on (play on, play on, play on…)”

The cheesy echo, cod-Caribbean vocals and get-your-groove-on lyrics are just some of the guilty pleasures to be had from All Night Long, which gave Richie a US Number 1 hit in 1983. 

Released a year after Thriller set new standards for pop-soul production, All Night Long saw Richie and Commodores producer James Carmichael deliver an undulating, teflon-smooth sound worthy of Quincy Jones at his finest.  At six minutes 25 seconds for the album version, All Night Long is a long pop song.  In fact it’s a multi-layered epic, seemingly comprising several songs in one, full of gear shifts and detours celebrating the studio-as-instrument.

But it is also a work of supreme economy in which nothing is wasted and every part serves the whole.  Behind its laid back, sun-kissed vibe it is slick, hair-gelled, and shoulder-padded. The song sounds like it should have soundtracked a pilot episode of Miami Vice and what’s more, it did. Everything about the sound of this record is white leather interior: air-brushed, classy in a quintessetially 80’s way. It’s a pulsing orgasmatron of studio effects, shimmering strings, synthesised horn stabs and complex percussion, all designed with machine-tool precision to get your feet moving.

Yet this is authentic black music, not white yuppie soul, and like all the best pop songs it transcends its own calculations.  Nowhere is this more apparent that the remarkable chant section, in which Richie does his damnedest to convince us that a roving street festival has just broken into the studio.  We hear shouting, crowd noises, the blaring horns of a carnival parade, a xylophone suggesting a Trinidadian street band:

“Come join our party, see how we play!” Richie urges, before the song launches into a call-and-response exchange seemingly pieced together from snatches of Creole, Trinidadian and Swahili:

”Jambo nipe senti moja
(Yeah, jambo, jambo)
Way to party o’ we go’n',
(Oh, jambalai…)”

Then we’re thrown back into the chorus one last time, before the song starts its long final coda: “Everyone we meet, they’re jamming in the street, all night long,” sings Richie.  By this point the song is soaring, symphonic, ecstatic.  Inside the music, the denizens of its exotic pop ultraworld are intuitively connected in a community of rythmn, the very streets conga eels of twitching funk.

All Night Long imports the spirit of traditional black communal celebration into a shiny global pop product and, in the best Motown tradition, does so with all the slickly engineered proficiency of a Chevrolet coming off a GM production line.  This is what helped make the record an international hit, as resonant in Soweto as it was in LA.  At the same time, dressed in its period aspirational glamour, it brilliantly fulfils one of pop’s core functions, providing a paen to the seemingly inexhaustible mysteries and excitements of the adult world as seen through the prism of adolescence.

All Night Long played a key role in the mammoth success of the smash album Can’t Slow Down, sharing groove space with Hello, a track whose video memorably cast Richie as a jheri-curled tele-stalker pestering a blind college girl. It is a matter of some regret that Lionel Richie would never recapture the glories of All Night Long, prefering instead to concentrate on cementing his growing reputation as the black Barry Manilow.

But for now, Lionel is beckoning again from his impossible island, a kind of funk Prospero, inviting us to join the party one more time. Waves of synth-wash are lapping the shore and the sky is as pink as your drink. Close your eyes and listen to the man.

 Kiwi punk legends return with a laid-back pop record that isn’t afraid to experiment

Back in the ‘80s and early ’90s, when the hermetically sealed worlds of indie subculture and mainstream chart music almost never met, the New Zealand music scene represented a kind of parallel pop universe.  This was a land where the brushtailed possum roamed, mountaintops glistened and idiosyncratic indie bands like The Chills and Straightjacket Fits penetrated the Top 20.

The Clean, formed in 1978 by David Kilgour and his brother Hamish, were perhaps the band most instrumental in kickstarting this scene.  It was one of their fans that founded the now legendary Flying Nun Records, and it was the unexpected success of their debut hit single “Tally Ho!” that helped turn the nascent label into a viable propsition.

Influenced by the Velvet Underground and New York punk, The Clean tempered their terse, stripped down metallic guitar sound with a quirky pop sensibility that would later inspire bands like Pavement. Their first album since 2001’s Getaway, Mister Pop marks a much-anticipated reunion, apparently recorded in the basement of a church in their hometown of Dunedin.

The result is a mixture of wide-eyed pastoral pop and playful experimentation. Instrumental opener “Loog” sets the tone; a beguiling slice of organ-led ’60s psych-pop that caresses its airy, swirling soundscape with coo-ing female backing vocals. Tongues are pushed firmly into cheeks for the jaunty, Byrdsian pastiche of “Are You Really On Drugs”, while “In the Dreamlife You Need a Rubber Soul” is a breezy reflection on the vacuities of nine-to-five existence, complete with swooning slide guitar.

But it’s with “Asleep in the Tunnel” and “Back in the Day” that the magic starts. Here we’re in Go Betweens territory, with songs that seem to speak to you in confidence, carrying that particularly comforting quality seemingly unique to Antipodean bands.  The effect on the listener is like being re-united with a long lost, favourite shirt.

“The forecast is for snow / You might not make it home”, sings Kilgour on “Asleep”, cocooning us inside its warm, briskly strummed acoustic. “Back in the Day”, with its spangly guitar and twanging, resonant bassline, could almost be vintage Lloyd Cole. We even get a spoken outro: “Out here in the ice fields it seems like / Extreme is the new extreme”, Kilgour observes as the track winds down like a watch:  “I’m not here for a long time / I’m just here for a good time…”  By contrast, “Moon Jumper” is a mesmerising five-minute instrumental drone that borrows heavily from the Velvets and Faust, its shifting textures and percussion brilliantly sustained.

 With “Factory Man”, an insipid ditty that could have been penned by Ray Davies on an off day, the record once again strays into pastiche, but the next two tracks are highlights. The instrumental “Simple Fix” is a delightful smorgasboard of acoustic guitar, piano, whistles, glockenspiels and baby noises, all of which float along on a panoply of percussion instruments from the back of the music school storeroom. This gem of skittering, improvisational loveliness sounds as if it should be soundtracking The Royal Tenenbaums.

Then we hit the home straight with the groove-locked roadrunner rythmns of “Tensile”, a kind of Kiwi ode to the Autobahn complete with pitch-bending keyboards and deadpan, vocodered vocal.

“The town looks best at night/ As we drive by”, the band rasp metallically in their best Kraftwerk voices, while underneath the thrumming, driving bassline, gently fuzzed guitars add to the nocturnal road movie feel.  The album’s brief outro “All Those Notes” rounds things off with a wistful, reconciled air:  “When the sun comes up we’ll be older”, Kilgour reflects ruefully as the music ebbs away.

The Clean are growing older with grace and humor on this humane, smart, and unpretentious record. It’s a patchy affair, and at times its throwaway insouciance can leave you longing for something as intense and incisive as early classics like “Point That Thing Somewhere Else”. Yet at their most inspired The Clean have lost none of their ability to leave you with a life-affirming glow. Mister Pop isn’t going to set anyone’s world alight, but it might make yours a fractionally nicer place to be.

Just when you thought it was safe to pull the plug on all those 80’s electro-pop revivalists from the shallow end of the talent pool, along come Wave Machines. These mask-wearing Liverpudlians combine an angular post-punk sensibility with a shameless ear for the big tune and a dose of art-school mischief. 

 This is a band so adept at unearthing lost pop hooks from the recesses of our collective 80’s unconscious that they induce a kind of false memory syndrome, stalking you with songs so maddeningly familiar you feel you’ve known them half your life.  Armed with vintage keyboards and chunky, singalong-a-hairdo tunes of the Cyndi Lauper/Thomson Twins variety, this record is pure, unabashed Pop – the effervescent stuff that, as Jarvis Cocker once magnificently defined it, is sweet, fizzy and makes you burp.

 After wistful opener You Say The Stupidest Things, debut single I Go I Go I Go puts it all on the table – clipped rhythm guitar, exhilarating shouty choruses and a panoply of glitches, bleeps and spring-loaded basslines.  Ditto The Line, a song whose sole mission is to send abstract brightly coloured shapes jiggling around your cranium.

 But rest assured, under all the cheesy disco lights, the Waves are sporting a smart, new wave haircut and a degree in something.  The chugging, stripped-down riffs and tick-tock rythmns of current single The Greatest Escape We Ever Made are pure Talking Heads, and indeed the Heads and their goofy offshoot Tom Tom Club are an influence that’s never very far away.   Singer Tim Bruzon even has a nice line in terse, quirky couplets a la David Byrne:  “I talk to you on telephones we made / from tin cans lying in the shade,” he sings in a voice marginally less emotive than coat hanger wire.

 It’s in Keep The Lights On that these elements are distilled to something close to genius.  A huge, dark bassline throbs under shivers of spectral synth as Bruzon intones, “Hold your fingers up to the sun / trace the bones, feel the blood run.”  Then his dry, deadpan vocals morph into a falsetto worthy of Jake Shears, held aloft by cut-and-paste smatterings of dreamy dance pop stolen from some mythical early Madonna B-side.

Then just when you think you’ve got the measure of them, Wave Machines become another band entirely. Punk Spirit is an angsty, self-recriminating guitar anthem that takes them closer to Elbow or Editors territory, and by the closing chorus Bruzon sounds for all the world like Tom Verlaine. 

 At times their charm runs out – I Joined A Union is forgettable if not downright irritating, while Carry Me Back To My Home indulges a fondness for multi-layered guitar arcs, but is a tad tepid.  Finally drummer Vidar Norheim takes over the hushed vocal duties for downbeat closer Dead Houses, which bleeps out of existence rather pleasingly in a Postal Service/Junior Boys kind of way.

 Some will doubtless peg Wave Machines as zeitgeist-chasing tryhards, and at times it does all feel a little calculated. But they win you over with their sheer inventiveness, their laptop-licking love of creating sounds for their own sake, and do it with such gusto and élan that, most of the time at least, they get away with it.

 You won’t be listening to this album a year from now. Like most highly stimulating consumables, you’ll most likely gorge on it ‘til you’re sick and wake up never wanting one again.  But for a few marvellous summer weeks these songs will stick to your brainpan like egg white.

Magazine’s The Correct Use Of Soap is such a wayward, iconoclastic record, so wilfully out of kilter with its own time, that its sound-world and emotional landscape remain unique in pop.

At the centre of this peculiar masterpiece is Howard Devoto, surely one of the most influential yet undeservedly obscure figures in pop history.  As the original frontman in the Buzzcocks, Devoto graced the grooves of the seminal punk EP Spiral Scratch, but left the band on the eve of its release in January 1977.  On ‘Boredom’ he was already signalling his disillusionment with punk’s one-size-fits-all rebellion: “You know the scene is very hum-drum,” he yawned. His next release, Magazine’s 1978 debut single Shot By Both Sides reflects ruefully on his narrow escape:, “I wormed my way into the heart of the crowd,” he recounts -“I was shocked to find what was allowed.”

So Devoto was the ultimate contrarian, the outsider’s outsider, and Magazine the group that, as one critic put it, “Camus would have been in if Camus had been in a band.”  Yet for all their literate, art-school trappings, more than any of their contemporaries Magazine were capable of a brutal emotional honesty.  The early singles Give Me Everything and Rythmn of Cruelty are ferocious assaults – punctuated by guitarist John McGeogh’s blistering guitar projectiles – in which Devoto describes a wounded, megalomaniac male ego imploding under its own contradictions.

Given such bare-nerved intensity it’s little wonder that by 1980, Magazine’s music had become tinged with a palpable sense of burn-out: “And then I just got tired”, Devoto sings on Song From Under the Floorboards. Indeed at times, Soap‘s frayed and forlorn slower numbers put one in mind of late Big Star (a solo Devoto later covered two Alex Chilton songs on the 1987 4AD compilation It’ll End In Tears). 

For their third album Magazine drafted in producer Martin Hannett, who had earlier mixed Spiral Scratch under the moniker Martin Zero. Hannett came direct from his work on Joy Division’s Closer, another record that combines wired, claustrophobic energy with a sense of enervation.  For Soap, McGeoch’s rampant signature guitar riffs were reigned in, becoming a more disciplined component of the whole. This meant a new pop sensibility could percolate around the Magazine sound, allowing Devoto’s bitter-sweet lyrics room to breathe. 

Thus liberated, Soap proceeds to deal death-blows to every taboo in the punk rule book, employing female backing vocals, funk basslines (courtesy of future Bad Seeds stalwart Barry Adamson), vertiginous keyboard swirls and saxophone solos.  Drawing on Roxy Music, Iggy and Bowie’s Berlin records and John Barry’s film soundtracks, the band had by this time developed their own fiercely original musical vocabulary, here enhanced by Hannett’s dub-like sense of space.  Though less dominant, McGeoch’s glorious, keening guitar sound remains definitive, and when he lets rip, as in the speed-fuelled scree of noise at the close of Philadelphia, all the more effective.

That Magazine were one of the tightest and most versatile groups of their era is established beyond doubt in their triumphant cover of Sly Stone’s Thank You, which turns the track into a skewed orgy of glacial synth bleeds and abrasive, drilling funk. Meanwhile on I’m A Party, with its louche piano and sax, they manage to sound like some decadent cabaret house band jamming in the small hours.  

Against this canvas, Devoto was busy taking rock lyrics to unprecedented places. In the upbeat, nervy pop of Model Worker, he characterises a love affair in terms of the contract between worker and state.  The song casts Devoto as love’s faithful servant, toiling away on the bottom rung of an imminent Soviet-style utopia, longing for the great leap forward: “I’m sick of working on the land,” he sings, “I wanna work with machines and look handsome.”

This blurring of the personal and political is a running theme. The songs orbit around irreconcilable tensions, not just between the individual and society, but also between self and lover. In Devoto’s world, love is a power struggle, and the ensnaring embrace of another threatens a crisis-inducing loss of identity. Yet repulsed as he is by love, Devoto has an addictive compulsion to return to it because, as he tells us on Because You’re Frightened, “I want to hurt and crave again.”

With its delicious feel for drama and its lyrical word-painting, Soap is both literary and vividly filmic.  Devoto’s outsider complex ensures the songs are full of echoes from the European existential tradition, from Dostoyevsky to Satre via Kafka, and he delights in claiming his place in a lineage of shabby miscreants : “I’d have been Raskalnikov,” he says, “but mother nature ripped me off.”  Elsewhere, Devoto glories in his role as a stowaway grub reporting from inside the rotten apple, his very survival an act of subversion: “I am an insect,” he confides in Song From Under The Floorboards, “I’m proud as hell of that fact.”

These narratives often resemble scenes from a hardboiled Dashiell Hammett thriller or labyrinthine film noir:  ‘I’m ditching an empty suitcase,” Devoto sings in I Want To Burn Again, “I’ve been in Storytown…”    And as the speed-fuelled opening riff of Philadelphia kicks in, we find him trapped in a surreal, paranoid nightmare, pursued by “Your clean-living, clear-eyed / clever, level-headed brother.”  It doesn’t look good for our anti-hero, who muses: “Maybe it’s right to be nervous now…”

In its poetry, its emotional richness and rare intelligence, The Correct Use of Soap represents the zenith of Magazine’s art.  Almost 30 years on, in a music industry seemingly stuck in a retro feedback loop, Soap stands as a monument to a band that, even amidst the convulsions of punk, dared to be different.