Prefab Sprout
Andromeda Heights

The exquisite and fulfilling excellence of pop that relentlessly permeated the entire eighties, incessantly propelled by the bloated affirmation of the notorious custom of music videos, I certainly did not find in the unfaithful Genesis, much less in the out-of-tune Duran Duran or the saccharine Spandau Ballet, even less in the talented but overrated Michael Jackson, the tuneless Paul Young or the gloomy Depeche Mode, nor in the "one hit wonder" Lionel Richie, the shrill Cindy Lauper, the challenging Gabriellian Kate Bush, the fluid but one-dimensional Huey Lewis with his News, the overblown Wham… and the list goes on.

The good vibes and fond memories were instead, in my case, the prerogative of the Tears for Fears, the beautiful synth/pop/soul season of Daryl Hall & John Oates, the atmospheric meandering of Talk Talk, some releases of the one-man band Howard Jones, and finally these "Prefab Sprouts", despite the considerable arrogance of their leader Paddy McAloon, a guy who went around for years saying he was the best, but… he was right!

Now he has long stopped voicing his ego... He has aged considerably from heavy ailments (almost blind, half deaf), looks much older than his barely sixty years, and essentially takes care of his own business with his wife and three children, at his home in the north of England. But here we are in 1997, and the talented singer, guitarist, and songwriter is in full swing, still accompanied by his then-girlfriend Wendy Smith, who, as always, is busy perfectly doubling a good part of the vocals, sighing an octave above and in unison… this is an absolute characteristic of the band's musical proposal.

Wendy will separate both sentimentally and professionally from Paddy after this album, essentially reducing Prefab Sprout to a duo with the other McAloon, the big-eared bassist brother Martin. Already in these recordings, there is no longer a permanent drummer in the group, and it is acknowledged that relations with Thomas Dolby, the synth wizard who played such a key role in launching and the success of this band, have ended. Dolby is nonetheless warmly thanked in the sleeve notes; after all, Paddy shows throughout the album that he has perfectly learned the master's lessons: now that the keyboards are also in his hands, they are sumptuously elegant, deep, well-judged, brimming with class as always and more.

The album is particularly soft and quiet… it hardly ever strays from the slow and lush ballad, arranged to perfection, sung as better it could not be with the precise and rich timbre of our hero, a mix of broad range (towards the lower notes), perfect pitch, unique personality and, above all else, an almost Mephistophelian ability to snap consonants perfectly, whether labial, parietal, or plosive, rendering the lyrics in perfect English and with an intelligibility worthy of being made mandatory in schools as educational support, like the Divine Comedy and the Betrothed here in our country. As for snapping words well, no one else compares: through McAloon's virtuous tongue, listening to the English language becomes a kind of physical pleasure.

The best parts of the work that I feel compelled to highlight start with the initial “Electric Guitars,” marked by a sculpted arpeggio with guaranteed effect, as well as the singing that extends over two full octaves. Then “Life is a Miracle,” which tells an obvious secular truth: “Life is a miracle, so it’s worth giving our best, before rest time comes” and immediately after “Anne Marie,” which has a disorienting beginning in counterpoint, almost à la Gentle Giant, and then continues with sumptuous, kaleidoscopic, psychedelic arrangements.

But the album keeps the best for the final triptych. “The Fifth Horseman” is nothing less than one of the masterpieces of this British pop band, right from the organ prologue plus a harmonica played by a guest: spine-chilling. The four horsemen of the biblical Apocalypse become five here, as Paddy adds Love… and even a little guitar solo, a rare thing for the Sprout.

The penultimate song is titled “Weightless” and is dedicated to… Yuri Gagarin! I would have thought of anything less than using the word Gagarin in an Anglo-Saxon text, but the rhetorical image supporting the lyrics is precisely that of a man who, thanks to love, remains suspended among the stars… like Yuri Gagarin! A delight.

The work closes with the eponymous song, which celebrates a house on the hills without cement and without wood, made of love and respect: romantic and uplifting messages conveyed through magnificent chords, sumptuous sounds, extended and surprising singing, however much one may be prepared for the distinct motifs of the inspired bandleader.

Class to spare, personality and artisanal skill make my esteem for this luminous musical reality from across the Channel timeless.