Look, when the time comes, we're all going to have to repent our wrongdoings to someone. You and I can sit here and pretend we're saints and that everything is fine, but in the end, while the message board sinners are getting theirs and the bookies who fix the Grammys are in line for theirs, we'll be sweating out that time we stole money from the donation jar at the 7-11 and bought the soundtrack to Footloose. Twice. But I'm not one to spend too much time dwelling on the past. Let bygones be The Bangles-- fifth graders need girl singers to have crushes on, too.
However, what might have been common knowledge in 1984-- say, that Hall & Oates were, at best, music my parents listened to, and at worst, pretty fucking terrible-- seems to come out much better in the wash. I heard Toto in the mall two days ago, and had to fight the urge to proclaim "Africa" the best song of the 80s. Okay, bad example, because I even loved that one in grammar school. But I didn't love H&O;, Steely Dan or Michael McDonald (that much). So, I grew up, and somehow look back on all that stuff semi-fondly, like an infected wound a torture victim was forced to live with for four years in captivity. Later, he looks at the scar as a companion, the only other being who really knows what went down all those years ago. "Out of Touch", you are my beautiful scar.
French quartet Phoenix are either drenched in the same sentimental soul-searching, or, hey, actually like soft, 80s-powered MOR pop. And you know what? I think I'm with them, for the most part. Vocalist Thomas Mars couldn't break a sweat on the sweatingest day of his life, but when it comes to smoothing out the velvet, he's singing second tenor for Green Gartside. Mars' voice goes down almost too easily on the band's second full-length, Alphabetical, which occasionally works against the full-scale pop invasion his songs might otherwise deliver. Adult contemporary hallmarks abound (chimes, "tasty" rhythm guitar, midtempo rock that sounds like mid-tempo funk), but fortunately for me, so do good melodies and arrangements. As any survivor of the mid-80s eventually discovers, adult contemporary doesn't have to be evil.
Wisely, Phoenix place most of their best material at the head of the album. The first single, "Everything Is Everything", is a glorious example of how to write a classically ambiguous soft-pop song: "Things are gonna change/ And not for better/ Don't know what it means to me/ But it's hopeless, hopeless." Sounds pretty down. "What I can't explain/ I'm sure you'll get it well/ Since I always wanted/ I always wanted you." Okay, who wants what now? It doesn't matter, because when you factor in the ace acoustic guitar jazz chords (yep), itchy triangle and Mars' pleading, cute lil' French guy croon, you realize that life is more than good lyrics. Life is about finding jams with triangles. Or Moog-squelch bass ("Run Run Run"), or grown men holding out falsetto harmonies so long they run out of breath ("I'm an Actor").
There is necessary filler, too: "Anybody" is decent VH1 fare with a hip-hop backing track safe for soccer moms, and vocal unison choruses that hearken back to the glory days of Fleetwood Mac. (You heard me.) However, I'd argue that the band's penchant for lite-sounds gets the better of them here, particularly in comparison to, say, Justin Timberlake. "Señorita" could be a good short-term goal for Phoenix, but on Alphabetical, they're content to settle in a comfortable rut of ultra-suede and Parisian cool. "Holdin' on Together" psychically channels Private Dancer but forgets it was by Tina Turner; the title track threatens to become Sheryl Crow at any moment, but without the preoccupation of being "rootsy." There's something admirable about a record that proves it's possible to remove grit from adult contemporary pop.
Still, it's tough to argue with the overall sheen of the thing. Just as Mars slips and slides through my ears, Alphabetical, like the best 80s jams, does that thing it does and gets out before the stale aroma of decay sets in. It doesn't ask you to remember it in the morning, and even leaves a few calling cards to reminisce those special moments in the foyer, gripping a glass of wine and buzzing on the twinkle in your eye. Sounds gross, doesn't it? You'd be surprised.
