Secondhand Daylight, the second Magazine album, sounds like it must have been made in the dead of winter. You can imagine the steam coming out of Howard Devoto's mouth as he projects lines like "I was cold at an equally cold place," "The voyeur will realize this is not a sight for his sore eyes," "It just came to pieces in our hands," and "Today I bumped into you again, I have no idea what you want." You can picture Dave Formula swiping frost off his keys and Barry Adamson blowing on his hands during the intro to "Feed the Enemy," as guitarist John McGeoch and drummer John Doyle zip their parkas. From start to finish, this is a showcase for Formula's chilling but expressive keyboard work. Given more freedom to stretch out and even dominate on occasion, Formula seems to release as many demons as Devoto, whether it is through low-end synthesizer drones or violent piano vamps. Detached tales of relationships damaged beyond repair fill the album, and the band isn't nearly as bouncy as it is on Real Life or The Correct Use of Soap -- it's almost as if they were instructed to play with as little physical motion as possible. The drums in particular sound brittle and on the brink of piercing the ears. Despite the sub-zero climate, the lack of dance numbers, and the shortage of snappy melodies, the album isn't entirely impenetrable. It lacks the immediate impact of Real Life and The Correct Use of Soap, but it deserves just as much recognition for its compellingly sustained petulance. Even if you can't get into it, you have to at least marvel at "Permafrost." The album's finale, it's an elegant five-minute sneer, and as far as late-'70s yearbook scribbles are concerned, "As the day stops dead, at the place where we're lost, I will drug you and f*ck you on the permafrost" is less innocuous than "All we are is dust in the wind."© Andy Kellman /TiVo

John Fogerty pulled himself out of the game sometime after his 1976 album Hoodoo failed to materialize and he sat on the bench for a full decade, returning in the thick of the Reagan era with Centerfield in 1985. For as knowingly nostalgic as Centerfield is, deliberately mining from Fogerty’s childhood memories and consciously referencing his older tunes, the album is steeped in the mid-‘80s, propelled too often by electronic drums -- the title track has a particularly egregious use of synthesized handclaps -- occasionally colored by synths and always relying on the wide-open production that characterized the ‘80s…plus, there’s no denying that this is the work of a middle-aged baby boomer, romanticizing TV, rockabilly, baseball, and rock & roll girls. Since Fogerty always romanticized a past he never lived, these sepia tones suit him but it also helps that he’s written a clutch of terrific songs: that giddy ode to his beloved game, the equally sunny rocker “Rock and Roll Girls,” the snappy Sun tribute “Big Train from Memphis,” the gently swaying “I Saw It on TV,” the rip-roaring “I Can’t Help Myself” (only slightly undone by its hyper-active drum programming) and, of course, “The Old Man Down the Road,” a callback to CCR’s spooky swamp rock so successful that Saul Zaentz, the then-president of Fogerty’s former label Fantasy, sued John for plagiarizing himself. Of course, Zaentz’s ire was likely piqued by Fogerty baiting the record label president on no less than two songs on this slim, nine-track LP: Fogerty howls against “Mr. Greed” and taunts that “Zanz Kant Danz but he’ll steal your money,” a potshot so direct he had to retitle it “Vanz Kant Danz” on subsequent pressings. Perhaps Fogerty’s anger is justified -- he had to give up his rights to CCR songs as a condition of leaving Fantasy -- but it’s not articulated well in song, adding a slight unwelcome sourness to an album that’s otherwise a cheerful, glorious comeback.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

White Lies' third studio album, 2013's Big TV, finds the band building upon the darkly anthemic sound of their first two albums with an added songwriting maturity. After touring almost non-stop in support of 2009's To Lose My Life and 2011's Ritual, White Lies took almost a two-year break to recoup and rethink their direction before heading back into the studio to record Big TV. The time off seems to have worked, as the trio of lead singer/guitarist Harry McVeigh, bassist Charles Cave, and drummer Jack Brown, along with producer Ed Buller -- who also co-produced the band’s debut -- have crafted a handful of highly literate, single-worthy tracks that still evince their love of moody, '80s post-punk. Admittedly, the album sprawls to some degree; there are two instrumental interludes. It's as if, after taking a break, White Lies felt compelled to try and get all of their pent-up ideas out onto the table. Thankfully, many of their ideas work. In many ways, Big TV has all of the characteristics White Lies fans have come to expect from them including driving post-punk beats, evocative guitar lines, chilly synth parts, and McVeigh's prophetic baritone croon. Impossibly, they sound even more engaged and clear-eyed than on the ambitious, stylized Ritual. With that album, White Lies seemed to put a song's overall production sound ahead of the song. The opposite is true with Big TV, and songs like the title track and the poignant ballad "Change" are deeply moving, emotionally resonant songs that still retain all of White Lies' penchant for arid, '70s sci-fi movie-inspired atmosphere. Also engaging are several euphoria-inducing tracks like sparkling lead single "There Goes Our Love Again" and the sweepingly romantic, orchestral synthesizer-tinged "First Time Caller." Elsewhere, White Lies dive headlong into the deep sea electro-disco of the Giorgio Moroder-inspired "Get Even," and lift our hearts cloud-ward with the pulsing Echo and the Bunnymen-esque dance-rocker "Be Your Man." Ultimately, with Big TV, White Lies combine the urgent passions of their debut with the conceptual ambitions of their sophomore effort for an engaging, far-reaching epic. © Matt Collar /TiVo

Just as it's hard to believe Jason Williamson's claim that he never heard the Fall before forming Sleaford Mods, it's all but impossible to imagine TV Priest could have existed without Protomartyr creating the template. Thick walls of guitar-based throb? A pounding rhythm section making a serious wallop? A vocalist who talks rather than sings as he bellows what sounds like blank verse poetry about the sorry state of our culture? All these qualities are present and accounted for on 2021's Uppers, the first album from London quartet TV Priest, and vocalist Charlie Drinkwater even sounds a bit like Joe Casey to make the effect complete. It's ridiculously easy to identify TV Priest's greatest influence, but if they lifted the big idea from someone else, to their credit they're good enough at what they're doing that you're not likely to mind, even if you're on Team Protomartyr. Drinkwater is a muscular, charismatic frontman and he brings a strong voice and a subtly intelligent phrasing to his rants, which manage to be direct and filled with impressionistic detail at the same time. Alex Sprogis' guitar work is artful enough to elevate his sound above the traditional post-punk clang and skronk (his lead figure on "Journal of a Plague Year" sounds like he's been listening to Guided by Voices in his spare time), and bassist Nic Bueth adds occasional keyboards that bring an effective level of atmospheric menace when they rise up in the mix. (Sprogis and Bueth are in especially fine fettle on the instrumentals "History Week" and "The Ref," something Protomartyr would likely not have thought to do.) Every worthwhile band needs a good drummer, and Ed Kelland has the strength and the imagination to give this music the backbone it needs. Much of Uppers was written and recorded while TV Priest were in isolation due to the COVID-19 pandemic (they managed to play only one live gig before lockdown put an end to playing out), which might explain the inward gaze that led to them embracing their influences so strongly. That said, this is also a style and approach that works quite well for them, and there's a venomous wit and observational eye to "Press Gang," "Decorations," and "Slideshow" that gives this music a mind of its own. Hopefully time will lead TV Priest to devise a more individual musical personality, but judging from Uppers, they have more than enough talent to make them a group to watch.© Mark Deming /TiVo

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White Lies' third studio album, 2013's Big TV, finds the band building upon the darkly anthemic sound of their first two albums with an added songwriting maturity. After touring almost non-stop in support of 2009's To Lose My Life and 2011's Ritual, White Lies took almost a two-year break to recoup and rethink their direction before heading back into the studio to record Big TV. The time off seems to have worked, as the trio of lead singer/guitarist Harry McVeigh, bassist Charles Cave, and drummer Jack Brown, along with producer Ed Buller -- who also co-produced the band’s debut -- have crafted a handful of highly literate, single-worthy tracks that still evince their love of moody, '80s post-punk. Admittedly, the album sprawls to some degree; there are two instrumental interludes. It's as if, after taking a break, White Lies felt compelled to try and get all of their pent-up ideas out onto the table. Thankfully, many of their ideas work. In many ways, Big TV has all of the characteristics White Lies fans have come to expect from them including driving post-punk beats, evocative guitar lines, chilly synth parts, and McVeigh's prophetic baritone croon. Impossibly, they sound even more engaged and clear-eyed than on the ambitious, stylized Ritual. With that album, White Lies seemed to put a song's overall production sound ahead of the song. The opposite is true with Big TV, and songs like the title track and the poignant ballad "Change" are deeply moving, emotionally resonant songs that still retain all of White Lies' penchant for arid, '70s sci-fi movie-inspired atmosphere. Also engaging are several euphoria-inducing tracks like sparkling lead single "There Goes Our Love Again" and the sweepingly romantic, orchestral synthesizer-tinged "First Time Caller." Elsewhere, White Lies dive headlong into the deep sea electro-disco of the Giorgio Moroder-inspired "Get Even," and lift our hearts cloud-ward with the pulsing Echo and the Bunnymen-esque dance-rocker "Be Your Man." Ultimately, with Big TV, White Lies combine the urgent passions of their debut with the conceptual ambitions of their sophomore effort for an engaging, far-reaching epic. © Matt Collar /TiVo

Download not available