Daniel's Staff Pick: September 3, 2024

The Damned: The Black Album LP (Chiswick, 1980)

Lately I’ve been trying to shake up the way I listen to music on my own time (i.e. off the Sorry State clock). I write most of the content for the Sorry State newsletter—including the descriptions for the Record of the Week and each week’s Featured Releases—and doing that work for so many years has left its mark on how I listen to music. I have a philosophy about how I approach these pieces of writing. They’re not record reviews; instead, I always refer to them as descriptions. This distinction reflects a difference of intent. I’m not trying to tell you whether the record is good or bad (after all, I’m trying to sell these fuckin’ things). Instead, I try to give you context and information to help you figure out whether you might be interested in a record. Often my descriptions end with if/then statements that try to connect a release with its audience: “if you like classic power violence, then check this out;” “if you like post-punk but think it’s gotten kind of stale, listen to this band because they make it sound fresh again.” An essential part of this practice is putting my own tastes and preferences aside and getting into the head of a band’s intended listener. I’m always asking myself the question, “who is the audience for this record and what does that audience like about it?”

This is all fine and good for writing for the newsletter, but I’ve noticed this practice of self-erasure makes it difficult to access my own feelings on music. When I listen to something new, my habit is to see it from this objective perspective, analyzing the choices the artist makes and why. I’m sure most people reading this can identify with the sensation of hearing something and thinking, “this is good, but I don’t think I like it.” Maybe the band is skilled at playing, or maybe the singer exudes undeniable charisma, or maybe they make a sound you’ve never heard. Those are things you can appreciate on an intellectual level, but do you like it? Does it move you? I’ve kind of trained myself to see the good in whatever I listen to, but in doing that, it feels like I’ve lost that sense of identification—this is mine—that’s necessary to truly love a piece of music. I sometimes worry that if I heard something I could love as much as the Adolescents or Koro or Can I would just process it in this robotic fashion and move onto the next thing without giving it the opportunity to get its hooks in me.

I’m not sure how I came up with this solution, but lately whenever I listen to a record from my personal collection, I’ve been assigning it a rating out of 5 stars. I’ve long kept a sporadic listening journal, so I just note the rating there. Thinking about how I rate an album has totally shifted the way I listen. When I’m listening for the newsletter, I’m trying to locate the record within a context: what is the artist responding to? What are they trying to say? Who are they trying to say it to? But when I listen with this rating system in mind, I’m thinking about my personal relationship to the music. The context is myself, my background and tastes. What does this music make me feel in my body? How does it change my headspace? Is that a pleasurable change? Am I excited to spend more time with this, or am I eager to move on to something else? A 4- or 5-star record has to get me up and dancing, singing along, or at least intellectually engaged. It’s gotta “spark joy” as they say. A lot of the records in my collection are 3’s and 3.5’s: interesting, competent, not a waste of time, but I’m not gonna cry if someone takes it off in the middle and puts on something else.

The Damned’s The Black Album is a motherfucking 5-star record. I was listening to it because I recently came across an original double-LP Chiswick pressing. The copy of The Black Album I’ve had in my collection since forever is a later pressing on Big Beat Records, and while I like the cheeky Beatles rip-off sleeve, it sadly trims the original release’s track listing to fit on a single LP. From what I can tell, all the single-LP pressings of The Black Album simply omit the second disc in the set, ending the album with “Therapy.” While I could take or leave the live versions of Machine Gun Etiquette songs on side D (though they are well-recorded and quite different to their studio versions), the real crime is losing “Curtain Call,” the 17-minute epic that takes up all of side C. The Black Album starts with “Wait for the Blackout”—one of the Damned’s very best songs—and delivers one singalong pop hit after another until you reach “Curtain Call,” where the view suddenly widens and the musical landscape stretches to infinity. It’s the perfect way to end the album. Sides A and B are such a visceral experience, all the singing along pulling me out of my head and into my body, clearing my mind, setting the stage for “Curtain Call,” whose sprawling openness feels like a meditation. It’s a trip, a journey, and one I love going on.

So yeah, the Damned rule. Sorry if my piece this week was too heady or abstract or rambling… I live a weird fucking life and this is the shit I think about. Now go out and listen to something you really like.