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{{a|review|{{image|Blondie Atomic|jpg|}}}}It should not make sense. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE.  
{{a|record review|{{image|Blondie Atomic|jpg|}}}}{{drop|I|t should not}} make sense. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE.


Three blind mice meet a marching band, runs into Sergio Leone in an underground New York disco, takes on a subterranean rollercoaster with a punk rock drummer to see a blonde goddess who murmurs expectantly about forthcoming apocalypse. All this in an ambiguous spacetime flux, flipping wildly between major and minor. Switching up tempos, and exploring dimensions in between.  
{{smallcaps|Three blind mice}} meet a marching band, they run into Sergio Leone in a New York disco, he takes them on a subterranean rollercoaster with a punk rock drummer at the helm on a quest to see this otherworldly blonde goddess murmuring expectantly about the on-rushing world’s end.  


If this is nuclear holocaust — atom-age rapture, see what I did there — I want more of this sweet apocalyptic disco.
All ''this'' in an ambiguous spacetime flux, flipping madly between major and minor, switching up tempos, and exploring unseen and inhuman dimensions in between.  


Three blind mice. ''What''? Why start ''there''? Because it plays a trick. A triumphal ascent, set to a martial, marching cadence  to signify their — ''our'' — steady progress to our certain evisceration. ''Did you ever see such a thing in your life''? The beat is mechanical, like a machine beyond mortal control, a crazy escalating upbeat, but in case we have not deduced what the nice found out, ''we are in a minor key''? We can’t say we weren’t warned, warned, but things are beyond our reasonable power to change. At the crescendo — are we happy or sad? — a parade ground drumroll — what is ''coming'', and is this ''it'', or a premature end? An adolescent spurt? A jolt, ''un petit mort'' — sex is death & death is sex, a little cresting wave, a sure-shot snareshot — ''stop'' — a wide empty  dustbowl, a kerrang of spaghetti western guitars and the rollercoaster clunges down into the abyss. Now the drummer Burke sets the pace, pulling frantically at the beat, a brisk four-on-the-floor stomp, hauling the band along at 135, but you know he’d go 150 if they’d only get a leg on — there, two measures in he’s given up on the quarter notes and is ''impatiently drumming his fingers'' with sarcastic hi-hat triplets as if to say, NO RUSH GUYS JUST WHEN YOU ARE READY.  
If this is nuclear holocaust — an atom-age ''rapture''<ref>See what I did there?</ref> — then I ''want'' this sweet apocalyptic disco.


They cycle round the intro vamp. Second go-round those hi-hat triplets are louder, the snare more strident, more like tongue-clicking like come on man we haven’t got all ''day'' there’s a sweaty apocalypse going down, man. But Stein and Infan and their cool hand Ennio Morricone guitars ''will not be rushed''. They play this dreamy double tracked twang and you know that this is James Calvin Willsey learned everything he knew, God rest him.
<big>{{smallcaps|Part I: Three blind mice}}</big><br>{{drop|W|''hat''? Why start}} ''there''? Because it plays a trick. A triumphal ascent, set to a martial, marching cadence to signify their — ''our'' — steady progress to our certain evisceration. ''Did you ever see such a thing in your life''? The beat is mechanical, like a machine beyond mortal control, a crazy escalating upbeat, but in case we have not deduced what the nice found out, ''we are in a minor key''? We can’t say we weren’t warned, warned, but things are beyond our reasonable power to change. At the crescendo — are we happy or sad? — a parade ground drumroll — what is ''coming'', and is this ''it'', or a premature end? An adolescent spurt? A jolt, ''un petit mort'' — sex is death & death is sex, a little cresting wave, a sure-shot snareshot — ''stop'' —


And underneath it all this tension. Fast against slow. Happy in the face of sad. Lively, but morbid. Plumbing depths but somehow aspiring. Is there a faint, rising keyboard swell?
<big>{{smallcaps|Part II: The Vamp: Spaghetti western guitars & an impatient punk drummer}}</big><br>{{drop|W|e open on}} a wide empty dustbowl, a kerrang of spaghetti western guitars and the rollercoaster clunges down into the abyss. Now the drummer, Burke, sets the pace, pulling frantically at the beat, a brisk four-on-the-floor stomp, hauling the band along at 135 — you ''know'' he’d go 150 if they’d only get a leg on — just two measures in and he’s given up on the quarter notes and is ''impatiently drumming his fingers'' with sarcastic hi-hat triplets as if to say, NO RUSH GUYS JUST WHEN YOU ARE READY.  


For all the sombre sombrero guitar that marching four beat has got a place to be and Burke is taking us there — and kaboom! there it is! Suddenly we're all major, the disco bass leads and the drummer Burke,is back in the pocket like he's saying I told you so, just cha-cha cheerleading now and here is the golden goddess and uh-hah, make it all right. Magnificent - Destri’s keys are pealing like church bells after a famous victory and it is all so major and positive — is that the ride over? No! boom — the ARP explodes onto line and oh your hair is beautiful we are thundering down into the depths once more in a beautiful minor - you can't understand joy if you don't know sorrow
They cycle around the intro vamp. Second go-round, those hi-hat triplets are louder, the snare-stomp more strident — CLEM Burke, is like come ''on'', man, we haven’t got all ''day'' don’t you know there’s a sweaty cataclysm going down?


Destri’s keyboard is reaching up, augmenting, yearning for something beautiful as if he can see it just above the grate
But Stein and Infante and their cool-hand Ennio Morricone guitars ''will not be rushed''. Their vibe is dreamy double-tracked twang and you know that this is James Calvin Willsey learned everything he knew, God rest him.


off on the rollercoaster
But underneath it all this ''tension''. ''Fast'' against ''slow''. ''Happy'' in the face of ''sad''. ''Lively'', but ''morbid''. Descending dark depths but somehow aspiring to the heavens. Is there a mounting, rising angelic keyboard swell?
Tempo and that drum beat


Bass solo
For all the sombre sombrero guitar, that marching four-beat has got a place to be and Burke is taking us there —
A flanging denuded perfect fifth, neither major nor minor, a sequenced beat, and Nigel Robinson


The bass
<big>{{smallcaps|PART III: Enter the Golden goddess of the Disco.}}</big><br>{{drop|K|aboom! There it}} is! Suddenly we’re exultant: it’s a breezy major, the disco bass leads, and the drummer, Burke, is back in the pocket like he’s saying ''I told you so''. He’s just doing the cha-cha, cheerleading now, for ''here is the golden goddess''.
The arps
 
The Ennio Morricone guitar
“Uh-ha, make it all right,” she sings.
 
After all this cultivated dissonance this seems trite and, on paper, a bit disappointing, but the way she sings it, and how Destri garlands it with pealing church-bell keyboard lines, hosannas like it’s the Eighteen Twelve, you know she’s right — uh-ha, make it ''magnificent.''
 
Everything is ''so'' major and positive, even the chord progression is ''rising'' chromatically up some stairway to heaven, and beautiful hair (again: on ''paper'' —) so we know we are building to something bigger, and ''kaboom! there it is!'' A throbbing arpeggiator explodes onto the soundscape and, mixed in with the blood and ecstasy are some gorgeous ''minor third'' harmonies. ''We are back in the minor''. The ride reaches its apex and we are ''falling'': the roller-coaster thunders down into the depths, for you can’t understand joy if you don’t know sorrow tonight — ''stop''.
 
Atomic.
 
{{Sa}}
*[[What is it about...?]]
{{ref}}

Latest revision as of 09:32, 25 April 2024

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It should not make sense. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE.

Three blind mice meet a marching band, they run into Sergio Leone in a New York disco, he takes them on a subterranean rollercoaster with a punk rock drummer at the helm on a quest to see this otherworldly blonde goddess murmuring expectantly about the on-rushing world’s end.

All this in an ambiguous spacetime flux, flipping madly between major and minor, switching up tempos, and exploring unseen and inhuman dimensions in between.

If this is nuclear holocaust — an atom-age rapture[1] — then I want this sweet apocalyptic disco.

Part I: Three blind mice
What? Why start there? Because it plays a trick. A triumphal ascent, set to a martial, marching cadence to signify their — our — steady progress to our certain evisceration. Did you ever see such a thing in your life? The beat is mechanical, like a machine beyond mortal control, a crazy escalating upbeat, but in case we have not deduced what the nice found out, we are in a minor key? We can’t say we weren’t warned, warned, but things are beyond our reasonable power to change. At the crescendo — are we happy or sad? — a parade ground drumroll — what is coming, and is this it, or a premature end? An adolescent spurt? A jolt, un petit mort — sex is death & death is sex, a little cresting wave, a sure-shot snareshot — stop —

Part II: The Vamp: Spaghetti western guitars & an impatient punk drummer
We open on a wide empty dustbowl, a kerrang of spaghetti western guitars and the rollercoaster clunges down into the abyss. Now the drummer, Burke, sets the pace, pulling frantically at the beat, a brisk four-on-the-floor stomp, hauling the band along at 135 — you know he’d go 150 if they’d only get a leg on — just two measures in and he’s given up on the quarter notes and is impatiently drumming his fingers with sarcastic hi-hat triplets as if to say, NO RUSH GUYS JUST WHEN YOU ARE READY.

They cycle around the intro vamp. Second go-round, those hi-hat triplets are louder, the snare-stomp more strident — CLEM Burke, is like come on, man, we haven’t got all day don’t you know there’s a sweaty cataclysm going down?

But Stein and Infante and their cool-hand Ennio Morricone guitars will not be rushed. Their vibe is dreamy double-tracked twang and you know that this is James Calvin Willsey learned everything he knew, God rest him.

But underneath it all this tension. Fast against slow. Happy in the face of sad. Lively, but morbid. Descending dark depths but somehow aspiring to the heavens. Is there a mounting, rising angelic keyboard swell?

For all the sombre sombrero guitar, that marching four-beat has got a place to be and Burke is taking us there —

PART III: Enter the Golden goddess of the Disco.
Kaboom! There it is! Suddenly we’re exultant: it’s a breezy major, the disco bass leads, and the drummer, Burke, is back in the pocket like he’s saying I told you so. He’s just doing the cha-cha, cheerleading now, for here is the golden goddess.

“Uh-ha, make it all right,” she sings.

After all this cultivated dissonance this seems trite and, on paper, a bit disappointing, but the way she sings it, and how Destri garlands it with pealing church-bell keyboard lines, hosannas like it’s the Eighteen Twelve, you know she’s right — uh-ha, make it magnificent.

Everything is so major and positive, even the chord progression is rising chromatically up some stairway to heaven, and beautiful hair (again: on paper —) so we know we are building to something bigger, and kaboom! there it is! A throbbing arpeggiator explodes onto the soundscape and, mixed in with the blood and ecstasy are some gorgeous minor third harmonies. We are back in the minor. The ride reaches its apex and we are falling: the roller-coaster thunders down into the depths, for you can’t understand joy if you don’t know sorrow tonight — stop.

Atomic.

See also

References

  1. ↑ See what I did there?
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