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The 1980s yielded much in the way of pop iconography, not least with the advent of MTV and music video, and the subsequent forefront ascendancy of image over everything. Tragically, it's that same emphasis on imagic presence that has allowed the decade to nestle itself in the collective brain-plate as a period of history of little-or-no cultural worth -- a throwaway era, packed with all manner of shitty detritus. Some, like Devo, Talking Heads, Kraftwerk and more obviously Madonna, seemed to relish this period of visual over-stimulation, turning the template of "image" to their considerable advantage via quirky music videos and/or elaborate, high-budget conceptual stage shows. By the same token, however, the omni-visual gaze of the 1980s' cultural mainstream also sucked some of its most worthy, most notable artists into its vortex. Of all the artists who slipped by the critical wayside, Grace Jones remains one of the most cynically-derided, sorely underrated and oft-neglected casualties. I reckon, yeah?
In many ways she, too, would come to represent part of the iconography of the curiously imagic audio/visual vortex of the decade that would swallow her whole, her music often regarded as something of an irrelevant afterthought. A memorable, often terrifying visual presence, Jamaican-born Jones initially made her name as a Paris model, gracing the covers of Vogue, Elle, and Der Stern, before relocating to New York to embark upon an acting career that failed miserably enough for her to give music a shot. Taking the then-vogue template of disco as her favoured mode of expression, she became something of a legend at New York disco-den the Paradise Garage, though reviews concentrated more on her remarkable physical/sexual presence than the music. Jones's early forays into disco (e.g. "I Need A Man", "Do Or Die") were unremarkable, though pleasant. Nevertheless, she caught the attention of Island Records head-honcho and early reggae champion Chris Blackwell, and later embarked upon a series of musical ventures at the revered Bahamas complex, the legendary Compass Point studios, that would subsequently embrace rock, reggae, punk, soul, disco and new wave, welding all into a vitally unique, decidedly eclectic broth of showtune diva-funk.
Backed by Blackwell, Sly Dunbar, Robbie Shakespeare and a harem of notable reggae sessioneers, 1981's Nightclubbing remains the watermark of this period of fervent creativity. It also marked Jones's debut as a songwriter, featuring two self-written solo contributions and, continuing her flair for striking visuality, was adorned by a truly striking, weirdly scary and decidedly minimalist cover. Remarkably for an album composed primarily of cover versions and interpretations (of music by the likes of Flash And The Pan, Bill Withers, Iggy Pop, Astor Piazzolla and Sting), "Nightclubbing" is every bit the defining essence of Jones's somewhat self-caricatured persona. it's also a grinding club record, a spellbinding feat of groovy musicianship, and something of a wicked precursor to the riotous eclecticism of the decade that followed. It also featured Jones's biggest hit, the funky-as-fuck "Pull Up To The Bumper", which to this day has the unerring ability to cause the world's heaving reserve of drunken dance floors to explode in a teeming throb of sweaty flesh.
Smooching along on a suavely sophisticated reggae groove, opener "Walking In The Rain" is unnervingly seductive, Jones's lugubrious spoken-word drawl dripping with oddly soulful sexuality. Though it's something of a historical injustice that Grace Jones has never been appraised for her deadpan yet devastating vocal delivery, listening to it in a cold contemporary light reveals it as something truly extraordinary. The point at which she moans "Feeling like a woman, looking like a man, sounding like a no-no, making when I can...", for example, leaves the 21st-century spine tingling -- for all the right reasons, of course, and a few of the wrong ones. In terms of scary sensuality, audio-visual landscapery and run-riot rhythmic bombast, only Missy Elliott appears to have been taking notes.
Next up is "Pull Up To The Bumper", a song that speaks the language of rhythm, adorned by a thumping urban groove comprising all manner of frantic percussion and synthy squelches. It's the kind of superhuman, unadulterated chant of a pop chorus that you could feasibly park a bus on. In terms of visceral, infectious, throwaway pop-art, "Pull Up To The Bumper" emerges as every bit the Sistine Chapel, the Marcel Duchamp, the "fuck-it" Year Zero of its day. Its nigh-on-perfect four minutes confirm Grace Jones not only as the R&B lothario's moment of clarity, the high-priestess of 1980s pop or the thinking gay man's Venus on poppers, but also the receptor of a genuinely fiendish musicality -- an accolade the overtly visual era unfairly denied her.
"Use Me" is a wondrous variant on the Bill Withers original, a smoothly languid reggae drawl in which -- yet again! -- Jones's sultry vocals emerge as the song's majestic, expressive centrepoint. Complementing them wickedly, however, is the funky reggae backdrop upon which Jones plasters her gruff chirp, where Robbie Shakespeare's fluid, flutteringly dubby bassline writhes itself a subterfuge of irresistible and tricksily incomparable Jamaican funk. Garnished with a slew of handclaps, wriggling guitar clucks, and staccato synth pops, it establishes an eerie soulfulness while retaining, as with much of Grace Jones's best work, an ever so slightly threatening air of menacing unease. Likewise, the title track, a broody slow-burning variant on Sir Iggy Pop's original, is furnished with lumbering dub percussion, a ghostly array of synth whooshes and drones, and above all, infused with Jones's all-pervading vocal menace.
Of the songs that mark Grace Jones's first stab at songwriting, the cheekily-titled "Art Groupie" is nothing special. Perhaps the album's most featherlight moment, it bobs along on a joyful, bouncy '80s synth-pop throb. Lyrically, however, the song acts as a personalization of Jones's art-flavored diva-isms and caricature persona. "My personal life is a bore", she croons, "Admire me in glory, an art groupie, that's all." It's an oddly prognosticatory moment -- Jones sings as though she's aware of her critical fate. "Feel Up", however, fares much better. It's another "Pull Up"-styled slice of riotous, earthy funk; Jones is here backed by a pulsating, relentless groove and all manner of spluttering effects (dogs barking, folky flutes, sharp intakes of breath, etc.) that predate Timbaland's staccato sonic musings by a good 15 years. Though driven by dancey repetition, it's a fucky-funk club-grind jam that converses solely in groove. Intricate and complex it ain't, aiming straight for the hips without paying lip service to the head.
Nightclubbing is far from flawless. The very idea of a "masterpiece" cover record doesn't bode well at all, but it brilliantly disproves the idea of Grace Jones beginning and ending as a freaky catwalker and/or Z-list actress; it's obvious that she's imbued with a fierce, though deeply curious integrity. The album could well be the mission statement for Jones's deeply diverse hit-and-miss career, though it has hits in abundance, and sometimes obliquely so. That said, it's never anything less than the creative outpouring of a genuinely unique, one-of-a-kind, and often misunderstood artist -- and a series of wondrously interpretive, curiously subversive pop songs, capable of inspiring fear and hip-shaking in roughly equal quantities. And for that, we can only be grateful.
-- Allan Harrison
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