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Soft Cell
Soft Cell is a band whose reputation has fallen by the wayside. Everyone knows their cover of Gloria Jones' 'Tainted Love', and probably the fact that an oft-played version of that track is itself tainted by its remix with another of their covers (of the Supremes' 'Where Did Our Love Go?') has destroyed the image that their downright masterpiece Nonstop Erotic Cabaret should have given them.
Sure, this album is immature. It's self-consciously and ironically indulging itself in the seediest possible topics ('primarily for single teenage males sitting in London bedsits' if you ask my unsympathetic friend), but it does so in a way that's alternately funny, depressing, disturbing, playful, jarring, and horrifying. Whether it's pretense or not is unimportant. Its political undertones, in the form of the first-person hypocrisy of 'Chip on My Shoulder' (not unlike some of the Manics) and the fetishist 'Memorabilia' are much easier to stomach than most bands' cringe-inducing forays into such topics.
That I failed to realize on first listen the power of the chillingly callous opener to this album calls my discernment into question. 'Frustration' is an unbelievably brutal depiction of mediocrity, unmatched by anything I've ever heard. If Of Montreal attempts something similar some fifteen years later in 'The Autobiographical Grandpa', it's a much more compassionate portrayal of a wasted and lonely existence. 'Frustration' exploits the peculiarly British inclination to omit articles to great effect. 'I have life / ordinary wife', etc.
Youth truly is skin deep, but reading these words don't do justice to the image of lost innocence in which Soft Cell's 'Youth' bleakly wallows. I can only think of analogues in bands so far inferior that I'm loath to disgrace this page with their names, but the songs are called 'Losing a Whole Year' and 'No Sex'. This is the kind of song that calls into question whether sex should ever, under any circumstances, be condoned; a relative in spirit might be Tolstoy's Confession.
'Sex Dwarf' indulges itself in a self-conscious portrait of purest perversion. It's strangely intermediate, half funny in how hard it tries, and half disturbing. If you listen to the lyrics, I think it comes off as somewhat immature and silly, but if you imagine an actual sex dwarf 'on a long black leash' or 'making it with the dumb chauffeur'... well enough said.
As I'm sure you can tell, I'm currently in the phase where, after several casual listens, the album has coalesced into something living in my mind. What that says about the current state of my life I shudder to consider. This page will see a lot of revision. Have no feelings / have no sex / wonder who to rip off next!