The Stranglers
The Raven

THE REVIEW

In late '70s England, swept by punk fever, this vinyl with a disturbing cover appeared on store shelves among the new releases. A black crow, bearer of ominous prophecies, surveys the horizon searching for who knows what. The time machine takes us to 1979. They are the Stranglers, and they have little to do with punk.

Their previous three albums had showcased a band that deviated from the typical "two chords and go" sound, gradually moving towards a much more electronic sound, with a recurring use of keyboards. The Raven is the fourth chapter in the career of these four Englishmen and also represents their masterpiece.
The group finally finds its balance, its maturity, understanding above all that it is better to focus on what they really want to do, rather than relentlessly seeking hit parade success. The result is an album that is very original, often with controversial sounds, imbued with an ambiguous charm.

The welcome is entrusted to the short and instrumental "Longships," a prelude to the oblique allure of the title-track. A martial, relentless, and obsessive rhythm is accompanied by an insolent guitar and electronic flourishes. Immediately thereafter, a synth makes its appearance, sketching out a memorable riff, the kind that gets into your head and won't leave, even at the risk of becoming annoying. A little masterpiece. "Dead Los Angeles" is even more obsessive with its hypnotic rhythm, a worthy forerunner to another masterpiece, the robotic "Ice." A keyboard motif creates an atmosphere that is icy and terrifying at the same time. The beauty is that this isn't a dark record, with all the typical stereotypes of that movement; there are no theatrical performances à la Bauhaus, no chants à la Siouxie, nor any pagan visions à la Virgin Prunes. The "Stranglers" use a much more subtle technique to terrorize, more cerebral and therefore more effective. How consciously is a matter for debate, but the fact remains that the album sounds like this. The seductive electronics of "Baroque Bordello" are emblematic, imbued with a hidden sense of fear, of impending tragedy. "Nuclear Device" slightly eases the tension, promptly reestablished by the sinister piano of "Don't Bring Harry," another masterpiece of suspense, this time less veiled, but still damnably fascinating. And if "Duchess" is the only concession to AOR, the only truly "sunny" track of the lot, the subsequent "Maninblack" is the exact opposite. The four Englishmen finally lay their cards on the table, unleashing an electronic funeral march, loaded with effects (including on the vocals), with terrifying synth bursts and macabre guitar riffs. Yet another, and this time final, masterpiece.

Overlooked by many, if not all, The Raven is a hidden gem of the entire new wave, and therefore even more delightful to rediscover. The group would never again reach such heights, but the black crow they delivered to history was one of pedigree.