June 2026
A few months ago, I posted a list of records that I felt would be a good start for creating a basic LP library. Soon after, I suggested a few more records, a bit more obscure, that I thought people should hear. I was thinking about both lists the other day after I heard a podcast about rock critics who, one speaker asserted, were gatekeepers that determined which bands would get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He also accused critics of creating a somewhat inflexible canon of records that define rock’n’roll.
I didn’t hear anything on the podcast that made me reconsider any of my choices on those lists, but it did occur to me that I had stayed with records made in the late ’60s and into the mid-’70s. I was reacting in that second article and a follow-up piece to the narrow focus that classic-rock radio has given to music.
Most classic-rock radio does feature music from the ’80s and beyond, but the choices are predictable and don’t vary. Over the next year or so, I want to occasionally take a look at music from other decades and pick some favorites.
I’ll begin with the 1980s. Back then I was still in my 20s, had a full head of hair, and had moved into my first apartment. My cable package included MTV. Punk rock had given way to new wave and other rock variations. AM rock radio was mostly gone, and FM rock radio was already showing signs of stodginess.
These choices are in no particular order:
The Clash: London Calling (1980)
I’m cheating a bit here. The Clash released London Calling in the UK in mid-December 1979, but it appeared in the US in January 1980. At that time England was a mess. The economy was in bad shape, young people were feeling frustrated and unhappy, and there was racial unrest in cities.
Things were the same in the US, but in England music was especially political—and no one was more political than the Clash. London Calling isn’t doctrinaire; it sees problems but doesn’t point to easy solutions. The title track borrows a line from the BBC News (“This is London calling . . .”) to introduce a description of urban decline, recent world events, economic uncertainty, and the malaise of the late ’70s. The song makes references to the near nuclear meltdown at Three Mile Island and to flooding in sections of London.
Razor-sharp rhythm guitars surround Joe Strummer’s impassioned singing in “London Calling,” helping to underscore his frustration at what he sees. “Clampdown” encourages resistance, with help from loud, overdriven guitars:
Kick over the wall, cause governments to fall
How can you refuse it?
Let fury have the hour, anger can be power
D’you know that you can use it?
“Spanish Bombs” contains references to the Spanish Civil War and then-current activity by the Basque separatists and the Provisional IRA. “The Guns of Brixton” portrays economic deprivation and police brutality in Brixton, a multiracial area of London where bassist Paul Simonon grew up. A little more than a year after the album’s release, Brixton would erupt in riots, and Simonon’s song was so prescient he seemed to have been describing those events.
“The Guns of Brixton,” “Rudie Can’t Fail,” “Wrong ’Em Boyo,” and “Revolution Rock” demonstrate the Clash’s mastery of reggae and rocksteady. The band acknowledged their influences with the latter two tracks, covers of reggae songs they loved. “Brand New Cadillac,” a 1959 hit by Vince Taylor, was a nod to early British rock. The cover art on London Calling was a reference to Elvis Presley’s debut album on RCA Records. The Clash wanted to move rock forward without scorning its past.
The Clash had always been good musicians and songwriters, but they really bloomed on London Calling. “Hateful” and “Lost in the Supermarket” have strong melodies and great hooks, but they fit with the overall tone of the album. “Hateful” is a condemnation of drug addiction and capitalism’s place in it—selling drugs is, after all, profitable—and “Lost in the Supermarket” takes a swipe at consumerism.
It’s possible that there was another rock’n’roll album in the ’80s that was as good as London Calling. But I can’t think of one right now.
The English Beat: Special Beat Service (1982)
In England, they were just “The Beat.” Here in the US, they were renamed because there was an American band called the Beat on Columbia Records. That band never took off, but the English Beat did OK here.
The Beat’s first two albums, I Just Can’t Stop It (1980) and Wha’ppen? (1981), were heavily influenced by ska and reggae and were overtly political. Special Beat Service brought the occasional keyboard into the mix, threw in some pop songwriting, and toned down the politics.
The album was well received by critics in both the UK and US, but the change in approach must have alienated some of the Beat’s UK followers. The first two albums both hit number 3 on the charts there, but Special Beat Service only made number 21. In the US, the first two LPs didn’t even make the top 100, but Special Beat Service hit number 39.
Special Beat Service isn’t a commercial sellout, and there’s plenty of reggae and ska on the album. The first tune that grabbed ears in America, though, was sophisticated pop. “Save It for Later” opens with a ringing guitar and is adorned with a beautiful string arrangement. Singer Dave Wakeling’s deep baritone carries the song’s engaging melody, and saxophonist Lionel Augustus “Saxa” Martin plays a solo that deftly combines grit and elegance.
One Englishman liked the song very much: Pete Townshend played it live at shows in the mid-’80s. He even called Wakeling to ask him what tuning he used on the guitar for the song.
“I Confess” also saw some chart action stateside. The piano that is the foundation of the arrangement is open and expansive, Wakeling’s baritone is impassioned but controlled, and Saxa turns in another great solo. The song leans in the direction of new-wave pop rather than ska or reggae, as does “End of the Party,” which certainly would have charted had it been released as a single.
“Sole Salvation” is a tribute to ’60s soul, and “Sugar and Stress” is a slice of British pop, with a 12-string guitar riff that invites comparison with the Searchers. “Jeanette,” “Sorry,” and “Rotating Head” show the band’s commitment to and command of reggae and ska but are as tuneful as the pop stuff, and the purists should have been pleased with Ranking Roger’s toasting on “Spar Wid Me” and “Pato and Roger a Go Talk.”
The Beat folded after Special Beat Service. Bassist David Steele and guitarist Andy Cox formed Fine Young Cannibals, while Dave Wakeling and Ranking Roger recorded three albums as General Public, with slightly shifting personnel.
Special Beat Service is my favorite English Beat album, perhaps because it was the first Beat album I bought and shows how versatile they could be. In truth, any of the band’s three albums could have made this list.
Stevie Wonder: Hotter than July (1980)
Stevie Wonder finished the ’70s with Stevie Wonder’s Journey Through “The Secret Life of Plants,” a movie soundtrack that received mixed notices. It charted well, but not as strongly as his other LPs. Hotter than July saw Wonder return to creating an album of standalone songs.
As usual, Wonder played a lot of instruments on the recording, but by no means all of them. Earl DeRouen’s percussion percolates through album opener “Did I Hear You Say You Love Me,” helping buoy along Wonder’s distinctive horn arrangement. Wonder’s growling vocal gives the song a lift and pulls the listener confidently into the album.
“Did I Hear You Say You Love Me” glides right into “All I Do,” a song Wonder had originally written in 1966 for Tammi Terrell. Wonder’s synth-bass line brings the song up to date, and Michael Jackson is among the backing vocalists. “Do Like You” is a reminder that Wonder could effortlessly create danceable funk, with complex keyboard rhythms crisscrossing and locking together as Wonder’s in-the-pocket drumming keeps the arrangement centered.
“As If You Read My Mind” is a bracing combination of rock and soul propelled by Latin percussion. Isaiah Sanders’s gospel-tinged piano blends with Benjamin Bridges’s rhythmically intense guitar to rock the house. Wonder’s harmonica solo lifts the mood of an already upbeat tune, and his euphoric singing on the closing verse is brightened by Syreeta Wright’s harmonies.
“Cash in Your Face” is a disturbing portrait of racism in housing. Wonder’s voice is full of anger as he tells a story of a landlord who won’t rent to the narrator because of his race, regardless of his financial means. The song echoes the socially conscious songs from Wonder’s great run of ’70s recordings.
“Master Blaster,” the first single from Hotter than July, was Wonder’s tribute to Bob Marley and reggae. Wonder had become a fan and admirer of Marley and his music. “Master Blaster” captures the spirit of joyfulness in Marley’s music, and Wonder does a shout-out to him in the song (“Marley’s hot on the box”). Wonder’s popularity and the song’s catchiness made it a number 1 hit in the R&B market, something Marley himself was never able to achieve.
Every song on Hotter than July has a strong melody, an ear-grabbing hook, and a carefully developed, exquisitely layered arrangement that stands up to repeated listens. Wonder’s recordings since then haven’t been bad, but they lack the inspired, effortless brilliance of the music he made during the ’70s. Hotter than July brought Stevie Wonder into the ’80s in good form and is his last essential record.
R.E.M.: Murmur (1983)
In 1982, R.E.M. released a debut EP, Chronic Town, after signing with I.R.S. Records, an independent label distributed by industry giant A&M Records. Mitch Easter produced Chronic Town, which was originally targeted for release on a small label. The chiming guitars, surreal lyrics, and solid-but-subtle rhythmic drive on Chronic Town would define the band for their next few albums.
When it came time to record a full album, R.E.M. pushed for Easter, who pulled in Don Dixon to co-produce. Like Easter, Dixon was a North Carolina native who was active in the regional alternative-music scene. R.E.M. went into the studio in early 1983 with Easter and Dixon. They re-recorded “Radio Free Europe,” which they had released as a single two years earlier on a small label.
The newer version opens with an odd electronic noise that leads to a four-count hard-snare opening by drummer Bill Berry. Peter Buck’s guitar follows, with firm chord strikes that let the notes hang in the air. Mike Mills’s bass helps move the song forward. Michael Stipe’s singing isn’t buried in the mix, but the lyrics are obscured—and figuring them out doesn’t make their meaning any clearer. Buck’s arpeggios at various points in the song chime brightly. At the time, “Radio Free Europe” sounded both new and “alternative,” whatever that meant, but it felt traditional.
“Pilgrimage” begins with Stipe’s voice in the distance, accompanied by a simple piano line that becomes more prominent when the song takes shape. Berry’s kick drum nudges the piano along. Buck plays a riff in tandem with the piano, and his guitar chords in the chorus are bright-toned and radiant. The vocal harmonies in the song are distant, creating an otherworldly effect that gives the song an air of mystery.
Stipe’s vocal on “Talk About the Passion” is unreservedly emotional. He has explained that the song is about hunger but admits that the message could be more specific. A cello in the guitar break and in the final section of the song adds a touch of aching beauty that makes Stipe’s vocal sound more urgent. We long to know the full meaning behind the lyrics.
Murmur is filled with surprising touches that add vitality to songs that are already memorable. “Laughing” opens with a strongly stated bass line and hard strikes on the drums, which give way to arpeggios on acoustic guitars; the sudden shift is unexpected and exciting. “Moral Kiosk” adds a slightly dissonant riff to the sustaining guitar chords to give the song an edge. The tone for the lovely “Perfect Circle” is established by two double-tracked pianos. Buck blends compressed harmonic overtones with driving chords to give “9-9” a menacing atmosphere.
Bill Berry never calls attention to his drumming, but he adds something essential to every song. Mike Mills’s bass playing on the album is fluid, adding melodic counterpoint to Peter Buck’s guitar. Buck’s guitar sounds so sustained and lively that I’m convinced he didn’t play a single barre chord on the album. Michael Stipe’s unique baritone and surreal lyrics define the band, and the songs flow out of them.
R.E.M had their strongest commercial run when they signed with Warner Brothers Records in 1988, but their albums for I.R.S. are my favorites—Murmur most of all.
Elvis Costello: King of America (1986)
Elvis Costello had such a strong run of albums during the ’80s that even records critics point to as lulls, such as Punch the Clock (1983) and Goodbye Cruel World (1984), have redeeming moments. Those two albums had followed Imperial Bedroom (1982), one of Costello’s masterpieces.
Punch the Clock and Goodbye Cruel World featured lush production, and Costello decided to move back to a simpler presentation after playing some acoustic solo shows in late 1984. He shared the bill with singer and producer T Bone Burnett, who suggested that Costello do an album arranged around his acoustic guitar and vocals.
The two musicians went into studios in Los Angeles to record Costello’s latest batch of songs. He brought his backing band, the Attractions, but for most of the album ended up using LA session players, including members of Elvis Presley’s TCB (“Taking Care of Business”) Band. The album gets its name from the first line in the opening track, “Brilliant Mistake.”
He thought he was the king of America
Where they pour Coca-Cola just like vintage wine
Now, I try hard not to become hysterical
But I’m not sure if I am laughing or crying
Costello takes a few shots at American culture (“She said that she was working for the ABC News / It was as much of the alphabet as she knew how to use”), but also at his own expectations, both for himself and his time in America.
The instrumentation is reserved, with Costello’s acoustic guitar forward in the mix and Jerry Scheff, who was in the TCB Band, playing acoustic bass. T‑Bone Wolk adds some flourishes on electric guitar, but Mickey Curry’s drums are laid back. Mitchell Froom plays organ to fill out the sound. The song feels less densely packed than some of the recordings Costello had done previously, but the result isn’t simple or spare.
Scheff switches to acoustic bass for “Lovable,” one of several songs about the complexities and difficulties of love, a recurring theme on the album. The song is as close to Sun Records–style rockabilly as Costello had come up to that point. “Indoor Fireworks,” a tale of a dying romance, is aided by a simple arrangement that reinforces the sadness expressed in Costello’s vocal.
“Poisoned Rose” is another jaundiced look at romance, but “Jack of All Parades” is more hopeful. “I’ll Wear It Proudly” is as close to shameless romanticism as Costello gets, and even in that song he acknowledges love’s complexity. “The Big Light” and “Sleep of the Just” are tales of regret, missed opportunities, and bad choices, as evocative and layered as short stories.
The Attractions appear on one track, “Suit of Lights.” That song grew out of Costello’s memories of seeing his father perform for indifferent audiences. It carries a scent of Costello’s ambivalence about life as a songwriter and performer.
Covers of “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” and J.B. Lenoir’s “Eisenhower Blues” could have been left off an album that runs over 55 minutes. Otherwise, King of America is a strong collection of tunes that further enhanced Costello’s reputation as a songwriter. He would work with T Bone Burnett again, always with good results. King of America is their pinnacle and one of Elvis Costello’s best records.
Next month: more ’80s records.
. . . Joseph Taylor
josepht@soundstagenetwork.com
