Turning campy vintage disco into smoky, dark-humored cinematic theater, New York City dance maven Cristina was too weird and forward thinking to make it out of the East Village gutter during her brief early 80s career. At times a leopard-printed turn-around-bright-eyes Bonnie Tyler, her vocalizations dip occasionally into the powder keg of squawky Long Island secretaries but just as often she laces her shuffle with Ann Magnuson, Kylie Minogue, and that other single-named downtown personality and launches into the ether around that great sparkling ball in the sky. Luckily for fans of dance-floor drama and those into the idea of a Cristina comeback, the folks at ZE have reissued her entire output, which includes 1980s sprawling, ultra percussive Doll in the Box and its darker 1984 synth follow-up, Sleep It Off.
Self-titled when it was originally released, Doll In the Box was produced by August Darnell aka Kid Creole. The humid "Jungle Love" arrangements are clearly his, but the frenetic Latin beats work well with her sensibilities. Obviously intended for the dancefloor, only a 21-second bit of incidental noise dips below four minutes and the majority of the tracks are well above five. For example, "Don't Be Greedy"'s handclaps and taunting group whines contrast with the smooth vibes, horn section, and Cristina's pouty ruminations that "every time I mention sex you turn away and say you're out of breath," etc. The jazzy percussion's reminiscent of Liquid Liquid: snaps, shakers, cowbell, and maracas.
Cristina's especially fun when she vamps: "Temporarily Yours", an up-tempo couples-only roller-rink spin cycle finds her asking not to be labeled a whore briefly before she makes like Veruca Salt lusting for that golden goose, breathily demanding "Give it to me/ Give it to me/ I want it now" over handclaps, flute, and a woozy string section. She emerges in salsa mode for "Blame It On Disco", lamenting the absence of her man, who she fears is dancing his life away. A taut bass and junkyard bongo army tear it down halfway through; later, she moans wantonly over a telephone synth, squeaker toys, and a heady Latin choir.
The original album is buttressed with five strong bonus tracks. Besides two versions of her Betty Boop cover of The Beatles "Drive My Car," the creme de la creme offering is the half-spoken cabaret of "Is That All There Is?" which focuses on Cristina's father burning down her childhood house and her hard-ass response: "Is that all there is to a fire?" The track resembles David Tibet and Gogol Bordello doing the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack: "If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing/ Let's break out the booze and have a ball." As with many of her compositions, she squeals about the NYC club scene of the time of "bored bankers dancing with beautiful models" and "beautiful boys with dyed hair dancing with each other." Then, of course, she falls in love with the "most wonderful boy in Manhattan": "He'd beat me black and blue and I loved it." The final coda mixes in a cuckoo clock and broken glass, people talking and laughing panning between speakers, a popped cork, a balloon.
Proving this gem wasn't an anomaly, Cristina throwns down plenty of magic on her sophomore release, Sleep It Off. Adorned with a fabulous Jean-Paul Goude photograph of a long-necked Cristina swan as musical staff, the album was produced by Don Was and includes a contribution from James Chance and covers of Van Morrison's "Blue Money" and the 1980 country hit "She Can't Say That Anymore". Perhaps mirroring the times (the bohemia promise of 1980, the gentrification of 1984) this is a darker album all in all. The subject matter is especially downtown edgy, as if she was dipping into Kathy Acker and Lydia Lunch when she sat down to pen her libretto. Opting for shorter/tighter shorter songs (none reaching five minutes) and more hooks, Cristina sounds especially alive while also bringing to mind a patchwork-punk Debbie Harry with an ultra cool Euro backing band.
"He Dines Out On Death" presents a suicidal woman with a fistful of pills in a foreign hotel. In the creaky "What's A Girl To Do" she sings, "My life is in a turmoil/ My thighs are black and blue/ My sheets are stained so is my brain/ What's a girl to do?" All this amid an off-kilter, squawky synthesizer coupled with very tinny toy piano break-up, and slithering distortion. She also offers her first of many Johnny Rotten snarls. (Also check out the Julie-Ruin styling of "Don't Mutilate My Mink".)
It's on the bonus tracks that she especially shines. "Smile" is a Blondie-infused triumph. There are two takes on the "Deb Behind Bars," more stiletto-punk cabaret. "Things Fall Apart" transforms a music box into fuzzed death disco w/ electric guitars. Best of all, her chirpy, whiplash cover of Prince's "When You Were Mine" (rendered here as "When You Are Mine") is an indispensable tablespoon of synth-pop sugar.
While these albums are obviously old-school crackly, they don't feel dated or nostalgic. And though the time's past, perhaps a pair of reissues will give at least a glimpse of how complex and fun popular culture could've been if Harvard girl Cristina's intelligent kitsch had lodged itself in the popular conscious instead of the new-age pabulum of a desperately seeking diva with a goddess complex.
