Talk Talk (1991)
Laughing Stock
Polydor/Verve Records
True story: An English rock band establishes itself as a pop icon by releasing a series of international hits and garnering worldwide acclaim. Suddenly, the band decides it’s bored with pop altogether – it releases records filled with minimalism, improvisation and experimentalism. What appears to be commercial suicide only solidifies the group’s place as forerunners of (albeit loosely titled) post-rock genre. Any guesses?
Thanks to Gwen Stefani’s rehashing of 1984’s “It’s My Life,” there should be little or no doubt in the mind of educated listeners that Talk Talk were true masters of synth-pop.
But if we were to only remember the band’s past contributions to pop music, we wouldn’t be getting at half of Talk Talk’s real legacy: musical innovation that has influenced almost every independent rock artist performing today. Their fifth and final artistic statement – their Pet Sounds, their Sgt. Pepper’s; dare it be said, their A Love Supreme – is 1991’s Laughing Stock.
Many die-hard fans suggest Laughing Stock is merely a spin-off of 1988’s Spirit of Eden, an album that foreshadows a similar experimental concept, a similar array of instrumentation and even a similar album cover: a tree decorated with exotic birds. In reality, Laughing Stock crystallized the sound that Talk Talk was searching for and helped complete their artistic vision. Flawlessly.
While the album marks the group’s baptism into a new realm of musical vision and pushes it beyond the Duran Durans of the day, Laughing Stock remains a six-song structure. Granted, a few of the tracks exceed the nine-minute border line, but theirs is no simple accomplishment. From the first strummed tremolo chords of “Myrrhman,” a clear intention is revealed – these songs are meant to be listened to in succession.
On “Myrrhman,” the soft, welcoming pluck of acoustic bass also introduces the listener to the band’s exploration of unique instrumentation. Delicate strings and trumpet gradually enter the scene as lead singer Mark Hollis whispers “Place my chair at the backroom door / Help me up I can’t wait anymore.” The subtle and often dissonant trumpet lines echo composer Charles Ives, the forefather of minimalism. On this track and throughout the record there are several moments where the ghost of one of Ives’s greatest works, The Unanswered Question, appears. The lesson is clear – Talk Talk did their homework.
The following track, “Ascension Day,” begins with a deep drum and upright bass groove before baring its teeth through openly raucous distorted guitar chords. Ever heard of a guitar player named Johnny Greenwood? Yeah, this might be where he got it. And while we’re alluding to rock styling, how about the Mars Volta? Mark Hollis was experimenting with a signature vocal style long before Cedric Bixler entered the scene. Even defunct, indie icons The Dismemberment Plan owe a debt to the more chaotic moments of “Ascension Day.”
The fittingly titled “After the Flood” has a successive entrance that blends piano, organ, guitar and Lee Harris’s grooving ride cymbal, which starts up after the musical downpour. Highlighted by suddenly gorgeous minor cadences of the warm, comforting organ lines, the track moves along steadily, like a wave receding from a beachhead. Here, even Hollis’s lyrics (perhaps more muddled than usual) take a backseat to the wide sonic sound of the track.
The simplistic, occasionally tri-tonal guitar intro to “Taphead” makes for a unconventional duet between guitar and vocals. As Hollis faintly utters the phrase, “When do you know, y’know, you know you learn,” it’s probable that the singer’s intent is to create a mood or feeling, rather than to form a proper sentence. More dissonant trumpet lines follow, which are quickly relieved by the album’s seminal track: “New Grass.” It’s the sound of Talk Talk at its minimalist best. Not many bands can create such exquisite piano chords (although, in recent years, the group Rachel’s may come damn close). Subtly bent three-note guitar voicings roll with the repetitive drumming as the vocals toy with a kind of staggering grace.
The album’s final track, “Runeii,” opens up like an Indian raga. With slides and a few muted strings, the electric guitar sets the modal mood for the piece. It’s a precursor to Jeff Buckley’s “Dream Brother,” but with a much looser vibe. Just as the listener begins to get a feel for things, the song is quickly swept away.
Considering many of the religious overtones (not completely dissimilar from records like A Love Supreme) in Hollis’s lyrics, references to “Christendom” and even the Apocalypse, it’s no surprise that Talk Talk chooses to end their masterpiece in such a sudden and graceful manner. Quite possibly, Laughing Stock personified all that the band had set out to accomplish, it marked the natural end of things. What else could the band possibly have to say? And what more can be said of such an album?