My Spin on Masterworks: 25 of 25
On the surface, that’s a relatively obvious question to ask of somebody, but (in my experience, at least) it’s not one heard particularly often. We’ve generally become used to asking one another what music we’re currently listening to, focusing on what contemporary albums are worth seeking out, and keeping our eyes and ears on the horizon for hotly-tipped new releases. It’s a natural compulsion to engage with modern culture, but finding out what albums your friends first started their collections with years (or decades) ago can lead to some pretty entertaining discoveries and discussions.
Tracing the histories of our record collections can be a source of great pleasure. Taking the time to pore through our own shelves, we can pick out albums that have soundtracked different stages of life, many of which have likely come to resemble close companions down the years. Your first album may not have set a precedent for the musical voyages you’ve embarked on since, but whether you still enjoy that album or if it serves as an embarrassing reminder of bygone listening habits, it allows you to consider your own first steps into music, and to measure the evolution of your tastes from then to now.
Personally, I remember getting Demon Days on CD for my fifteenth birthday, having asked for it after noticing the healthy number of ubiquitous singles it housed: ‘Dare’, ‘Feel Good Inc.’, ‘Dirty Harry’. I suppose by modern (and possibly general) standards, that’s a pretty late age at which to start getting into music. Fifteen seems practically ancient when you imagine the iTunes collection of a pre-teen in this decade, and it was longer still before my casual enjoyment of music had grown into a full-on compulsion to listen, to discover, and eventually to write about it. Of course, before owning Demon Days, I’d been listening to works by other bands and artists, mostly on CDs sponged from my parents and older sister. These were mostly artists of the 80s and 90s, while my friends in school and college prompted me to try songs from more modern groups. I genuinely enjoyed many of these suggestions, while there were others that I probably wanted to like more than I genuinely did. In both cases, these songs and artists helped cement my sense of belonging in a social capacity. I was this kind of person, so I listened to this kind of music. Reductive as it sounds now, it was one of the ways in which I identified myself during some very overwhelming years.
Since then, things have become more varied. Over the past decade, passing interests have become obsessions, fandom has churned into devotion, and some sounds I once adored have completely disappeared from my listening life. I’ve disowned some of my earliest physical purchases (goodbye, The Kooks) and found renewed appreciation for others (hello, Queens of the Stone Age). I’m the first to admit that my tastes are hardly unusual or broad even now, but since those demon days of the mid-noughties, I’d like to think that my music collection has become more well-rounded. Throughout it all, however, Gorillaz’ second album has remained a staunch favourite. I might not dust it down for a revisit every month, but it’s a work which I’ve never viewed with anything less than fondness. Not just for the twangs of nostalgia, either: I’ve got a lot of time for the album’s colourful aesthetic, its playful genre-blending, and its window into the progression of the band itself.
Gorillaz have become constant allies throughout my past decade of album-hopping. Their singles provided the soundtrack to numerous teenage episodes, as well as some of my ill-advised steps into adulthood. They’ve made music that I’ve bonded over with friends and family alike: my sister and I were sucked in by the terrific video (and even more terrific hooks) of ‘19-2000’, and more recently I’ve watched my friend smuggle the rap verses to ‘Clint Eastwood’ into open-mic covers of Damien Rice songs. As I mentioned in my Slave to the Rhythm post, I share of lot of music with my dad, and we both grew to adore 2010’s Plastic Beach separately. To this day, he confidently ranks it in his personal top five, which is a pretty spectacular claim. It’s also my favourite Gorillaz LP to date (stay tuned for a hopeful update in 2017): it’s more adventurous than Demon Days in style and concept, and contains a bounteous showcase of collaborative gold. By 2010, Gorillaz were less of a virtual band and more like a roving band of musical swashbucklers, whose real faces eclipsed the two-dimensional characters and transformed Gorillaz into an even bolder presence.
But Demon Days still possesses magic in spades. ‘Feel Good Inc.’ may have oversaturated the airwaves back in its heyday, but its punchy production still blossoms when heard now: the terrific De La Soul verses and that bass riff give the song a sparkle that continues to glimmer brightly. MF Doom’s appearance on ‘November Has Come’ is slick, menacing, and a perfect fit to the woozy instrumentals, while there’s a nagging ache to centrepieces ‘El Manana’ and the funk weariness of ‘Every Planet We Reach is Dead’. Across this diverse and smudgy range of tunes, things occasionally tip into nuttier territory: the likes of fuzzy interlude ‘White Light’, warped hymn ‘O Green World’, and the love/hate Dennis Hopper parable ‘Fire Coming Out of the Monkey’s Head’ have wrinkled noses of some would-be fans. But in my eyes, the album’s imperfections and goofy missteps clarify that Demon Days is first and foremost a joyous work. The fun factor continiually takes precedent over solemn notions of artistry, and the result is a vibrant, dramatic and humorous collection that’s refreshing and thrilling to dive into. Start-to-finish, I think it’s a treat.
So, what was the first album you ever owned? Do you still stand by it, or has it become too redolent of a cringeworthy time in which you owned dubious T-shirts and an even more dubious haircut? Maybe you bought it because you were trying to fit in. Maybe it was a gift from someone, possibly eager to hear your own thoughts. Maybe it was one that you spent a while saving up for, and you still treasure it now as you did back when you were giving it its first few spins. In a few years, the notion of what constitutes the first album you “owned” could be very different. What will be the average age at which people own their first records – if at all? I’m not going to try and prophecise anything, but with the advent of Spotify, Tidal et al, will it be possible to definitively mark the first album you ever “owned”, when a subscription to a streaming service makes that definition much more nebulous?
I suppose I can only speak for myself on this topic. The future trajectory of my album collection – and my relationship with music in general – will hopefully be a sprawling one, studded with more than a few questionable choices but also a handful of gems. There may be records in which I find an emotional bond to match that of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, or Endtroducing…, or Blue, or In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, or Immunity. But whatever my collection grows into from here, I can trace its history back to a definite start-point: Demon Days. And it’s an album I’m happy to call the first I ever owned. I may not turn to it in the same way as I’ll turn to another of the albums in this list, but I love it regardless. Not only is it a fun, catchy, varied pop album, it will always be my original touchstone in the form, and I still think it’s a great one. A masterwork, if you like.