Love And Money
Strange Kind Of Love

When I was a very young speaker at a provincial radio station, I remember my skeptical expression at the cover of this album, a sort of last supper where the diners seem like nobles fallen on hard times and people who happened to be there by chance. This hasty judgment (after all, I was only 13) remains my first and only error in judgment about the Love And Money.

Placing the vinyl on the old Technics turntable (the 1200s were not yet within our reach), here is the warm and reassuring voice of James Grant beginning to tell me stories of loves that were born and died under the dense London rain; stories imbued with disillusionment for the newfound awareness that the perfect woman does not exist, perhaps precisely because of one's imperfections; stories of him sipping yet another China White leaned against the huge slab of the penthouse on the top floor of a crumbling building, while the girl nervously packs her bags and tears mix with eyeliner and foundation, and in his mind echo the afternoon walks in Camden Town among pigeons taking flight and saxophonists, perhaps improvised but who find themselves at the right place at the right time, with their hats pulled down and rigorously with suspenders. Anglo-Saxon loves told in music often have an intellectual aftertaste practically unknown to us Latins, genetically accustomed to the blood and coronary overheating when it comes to passion.

Here passion is also expressed with a red rose left on her pillow while she slept, and off through the storm with a taxi waiting for us under the house and a taxi driver ready to light a Dunhill without a filter because he already knows how it feels.

Intense and elusive emotions at the same time, therefore, and listening gradually convinces us that we are facing an album where every track could easily have been used as a single, given the high catchiness that for once does not associate with the concept of easy listening, also due to the maniacal care of the arrangements that make every track a small but very precious pearl. One can clearly notice in this case the reassuring presence of Gary Katz, historic producer of Steely Dan, who at the time suggested to L&M a mass transfer to the USA to "Americanize" slightly that sound that in their first work "All you need is..." appeared too Brit.
You can sense the hovering of various ghosts that influence the music and lyrics of James Grant, voice and mind of L&M, who with the composed air worthy of the most inspired William Shatner, draws glimpses of reality still rare to be found today. Ghosts bearing the names of Donald Fagen ("Up escalator", "Razorsedge") and Blue Nile ("Strange kind of love"), passing by mid-80s Sting ("Inflammable") and not disdaining to wink at Toto ("Shape of things to come", "Walk the last mile"). Speaking of the latter, the first surprise before even listening to the album is reading the booklet and noticing the presence on drums of the late (and stylistically perfect) Jeff Porcaro, coincidentally a former Steely Dan during "Pretzel Logic" times, who plays on all ten tracks (eleven in the cd version: "Scapegoat" is indeed missing on vinyl).

I was talking about sharp lyrics, which I recommend translating to get the concepts James Grant expresses clear in your mind.
Just a few hints to give you an idea:

"She is like a maiden locked in the hold of a sinking ship... and in the back of my mind I hear the devil singing" (Strange kind of love)
"Shame, your conscience is still kicking you, but you know many ways to become numb to the pain. Nice the elevator that takes you high, less nice to discover you live in an upside-down world" (Up escalator)
"What light refuses to embrace, is embraced by darkness. And I always seek what I need in the wrong places. Inflammable... but it is my hope that burns" (Inflammable)
"You appear... and the senses prevail" (Shape of things to come)

In short, a godsend for those like me who had thought of a bunch of drunkards with a dandy attitude who, like many in the '80s, came out with a trash album made for teenagers and nostalgic of the worst Bryan Ferry. I am very happy to have been wrong.

To be listened to preferably at night, in the car while returning home and inevitably taking stock of one's life. In summer, accompany it with Southern Comfort, in winter just your own thoughts will be enough to keep it spinning continually.
Best track: Strange kind of love.

Yet another little cry of protest against the music market: I bought this cd for LIRE 4,900 from the Nannucci catalog many years ago...