Gang of Four
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I sensed that bands like Gang of Four represented the next step beyond the literal hard-core punk I was into at the time. It was like reading Forced Exposure when you were starting to grow out of Maximum Rock ‘n’ Roll. You knew it was the next thing you’d be into, yet you weren’t sophisticated or experienced enough to grasp its content. Gang of Four’s lyrics gave me that feeling, especially “At Home He’s a Tourist” (“At home she’s looking for interest / She said she was ambitious / So she accepts the process”). I would picture an unhappy Englishwoman mopping her kitchen. But the image was outside of me–I didn’t feel it myself.
Until that first year out of college. Gang of Four’s scathing commentary on wage slavery, marketing, alienation, and middle-class morality finally began to make sense. All it took was one big, unfruitful search for a job–and the realization that I’d have to grow out my Mohawk to get one–and a few months in the big, scary city to make those songs relevant.
Neither King nor Gill smiled. The rangy King made angular, jerky mid-80s dance moves like David Byrne, only they were more spasmodic, more inspired–less affected. At the same time, Gill moved back and forth across the stage, playing his Gibson hollow body with his head thrown back and lips pursed into an arrogant smirk, staring down the audience. Soon everything came together. The Gang of Four (or Two, if you will) was unlike any other band I’ve seen this year. The loudness of the bass and their dour expressions combined with the minimal light show and the timelessness of the songs to weave a spell–the music (even the newer material) seemed larger and more sinister than on the records. The audience shouted song titles, sang along with the band, and danced so hard that the floor moved up and down.
