Pet Shop Boys, “Very”

psb very

(My 100 favorite albums in chronological order: #40 – released September 27, 1993)

Track listing: Can You Forgive Her / I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind of Thing/ Liberation / A Different Point Of View / Dreaming Of The Queen / Yesterday, When I Was Mad / The Theatre / One And One Make Five / To Speak Is A Sin / Young Offender / One In A Million / Go West

A band’s best work typically does not come after its first greatest hits album, particularly if that compilation sells well or provides a successful career-to-date overview. More often than not, subsequent efforts will pale in comparison: how can the average band compete with its own best work, or at least the perception such a package suggests? For every rare mid-or-late-career triumph, you’ll find ten or twenty albums made by artists who are past their prime, their artistry steadily in decline—an unfortunate but unavoidable fate in as fickle and fluid a cultural landscape as pop music.

Leave it to the Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe to defy this trend. Arriving two years after Pet Shop Boys Discography (a dutiful but illuminating compilation of the band’s UK singles through 1991), Very is the emphatic opposite of marking time or clinging to the coattails of past successes. While no major musical departure from the band’s beloved, foppishly witty, equally cerebral and celebratory synth-pop (a template they would, in fact, later significantly alter on occasion) Very is a crucial turning point in the band’s oeuvre: it altogether sounds louder, more audacious and vivacious and freer than any of their previous work (especially their last studio album, the elegantly muted Behaviour).

You can partially track this change in approach to Tennant’s publicly coming out as gay, which he more or less first did on record via Discography’s two new songs (“DJ Culture” and “Was It Worth It”). Very both acknowledges and revels in this admission, lending context to songs that previously would’ve been all subtext. While this newfound openness can’t help but diminish PSB’s enigmatic allure just a little, it also pushes them into bold, unprecedented lyrical and emotional territory—the album unquestionably lives up to its title. Although their next record, Bilingual (1996) would more closely dovetail with my own coming out, in retrospect Very was just as significant a talisman for me in that process. As much as I wish not to reduce Very to a “coming out” album, it is an inextricable component of it, with more than half of the songs addressing the very notion that freedom comes from openness and candor.

Whereas Behaviour’s first track was the slow burning, contemplative “Being Boring”, Very’s is more a shock to the system. “Can You Forgive Her” practically explodes on contact, its sonic playground of orchestral synth-stabs careening on by at an almost militant, march-like tempo. The song’s narrator addresses a young man whose girlfriend accuses him of retaining romantic feelings for a childhood friend. Although Tennant does not identify the latter as male, he provides enough clues (“You drift into the strangest dreams / of youthful follies and changing teams”) for intuitive listeners to easily make the inference. While Tennant almost pities the young man (damning his appetite for revenge as, “Childish, so childish!”), he’s also on his side, egging him on, reminding him, “She’s made you some kind of laughing stock / because you dance to disco and you don’t like rock.” Much of Very seethes with anger and contempt for being boxed in and held back from whom you really are. Also the album’s lead single (I’ve embedded its totally bonkers video below), “Can You Forgive Her” had a manifesto’s impact—in it, you could practically hear Tennant and Lowe saying, upfront, “This is who we are, and you’re either with us or you’re not.”

This idea of coming clean resurfaces throughout Very. Second track “I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind of Thing” replaces the first song’s coming-to-light paranoia with an almost euphoric sense of acceptance. The very song title is all about freeing yourself via thoughts and actions others wouldn’t expect of you; when Tennant tosses off comments like, “I feel like taking all my clothes off / and dancing to the Rite of Spring”, he does so with the glee of someone fully throwing caution to the wind. The sweet, mid-tempo “Liberation” further articulates these feelings, only placing them in a hyper specific context: “Your love is liberation,” he sings in the chorus, and while it’s a common, simplistic statement, coming from Tennant it feels staggering to be this emotionally open and sincere (certainly a long way from “I love you / you pay my rent”). That he does this without getting sappy about it is even more admirable—note the simple yearning and understatement with which he sings the phrase, “You were sleeping on my shoulder”.

Still, a PSB album of nothing but happy love songs would find them truly being boring, and Very has plenty of drama. Some of it is the usual relationship stuff: “A Different Point of View”, where a couple butts heads at seemingly all possible angles of thought and speech; “One and One Make Five”, possibly one of the catchiest songs ever about infidelity that, as a bonus, also incorporates arithmetic; “Young Offender”, where Tennant considers a much younger lover over a plethora of video game noises and dance club beats, playing the self-deprecating elder to the hilt (“I’ve been a teenager since before you were born,” he drily muses); and “One In A Million”, where Tennant pleads with his lover not to leave him but cleverly turns the tables on himself, realizing that he, not his lover, is the anomaly the song’s title suggests.

However, Very’s highlights often cast internal struggles within a wider context. The lush, loping “Dreaming of the Queen” is about the particularly British obsession the title phrase references. Tennant reminisces of having tea with her Royal Highness, along with Princess Diana and an undisclosed “you” addressed in the second person. The song has plenty of that droll PSB humor (listen to how Tennant sings the second half of this couplet: “For I was in the nude / the old Queen disapproved”) but it’s more melancholy than anything, especially at the chorus: “There were no more lovers left alive / no one has survived.” He concludes, “And that’s why love has died / yes it’s true / look it’s happened to me and you.” As much of an AIDS song as “Being Boring”, in the years since Diana’s death, “Dreaming of the Queen” only feels more wistfully sad.

“Yesterday, When I Was Mad” sits at the other end of the tonal spectrum. Like “It’s A Sin”, it has an extended, calm-before-the-storm intro that gives way to a maelstrom of driving techno/rave, Tennant coming off like a deranged professor with his filtered, spoken word vocal in the verses while goofy synth noises wildly bounce all over him. Deliriously over-the-top and completely unapologetic about it, the song would simply be another glorious PSB trifle if not for how Tennant uses it to explore his own newfound openness. Between all of his gloriously bitchy asides, he admits, “I don’t believe / in anyone’s sincerity / and that’s what’s really got to me.” He’s wise enough to understand the consequences of being forthcoming, but also admits, “Then, when I was lonely / I thought again and changed my mind.”

As Very progresses, it becomes clear that personal liberation is only the first step. With “The Theatre”, Tennant and Lowe present a fiery, cathartic “us vs. them” critique of class and gentrification; that it’s purposely done in the style of an Andrew Lloyd Webber showstopper—the very thing its protagonists finds contemptuous, is something few other artists could pull off. “We’re the bums you step over as you leave the theatre,” Tennant and a massed chorus sing as the music’s orchestral swell (complete with sweeping harp glissandos) empowers them like a vast supporting army. The feeling carries over to “To Speak Is A Sin”, which could very well accompany that scene in Far From Heaven where Dennis Quaid’s closeted character enters a gay bar for the first time, finding himself in a strange new space where every man presumably keeps to himself but yearns to make contact with another. Painting a lingering portrait of men “ordering drinks at the bar” as a mournful sax adds a new flavor to the band’s usual electronic palette, it has none of the previous song’s fury, but it recognizes that there’s safety in numbers and at least some hope of redemption in the camaraderie of like-minded souls.

Very concludes by reinforcing this solidarity with a stirring cover of song originally by (of all people) The Village People. When that campy costumed quintet recorded “Go West” in 1979, it was yet another one of their disco-flavored paeans to San Francisco, that liberal gay mecca which welcomed thousands of young small town misfits with open arms. Keeping in line with and neatly summarizing Very’s overall aesthetic, PSB transform the song into an sumptuous orchestral dance floor banger with a loud, manly, operatic chorale complementing Tennant’s lead vocal. As cover choices go, it’s a perfect fit for Very because it is about liberation, about openness, about community. It may be filtered through an idealistic haze, but that doesn’t diminish one whit lyrics as affectingly straightforward as, “There where the air is free / we’ll be (we’ll be) who we want to be.” In tradition of the best PSB songs, it also lends itself to alternate interpretations. After all, it did come out at the height of the AIDS epidemic, which one could easily see as the impetus for its call to arms. The song’s music video even suggests another reading, the title command now directed towards the then-recently dissolved Soviet Union.

Since Very, we’ve had seven more albums from Tennant and Lowe (not to mention soundtracks, original cast recordings, remix and B-side compilations, etc.) that run the gamut from returns-to-form (Electric, Fundamental) to lethargic miscalculations (Elysium) to boilerplate pleasant PSB (Yes). For me (and I suspect most of their fans), nothing tops Very—it not only set the bar incredibly high, it also redefined what kind of bar the band hoped to set. It is essential listening for those struggling with their sexuality, and also for anyone seeking release through coming to terms with who they are for whatever reason.

Up next: Pop without parameters.

“Can You Forgive Her”:

“Go West”:



(My 100 favorite albums in chronological order: #30 – released November 4, 1991. Originally posted on Kriofske Mix, 5/15/2015.)

Track listing: West End Girls / Love Comes Quickly / Opportunities (Let’s Make Lots of Money) / Suburbia / It’s A Sin / What Have I Done To Deserve This? / Rent / Always On My Mind / Heart / Domino Dancing / Left To My Own Devices / It’s Alright / So Hard / Being Boring / Where The Streets Have No Name (Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You) / Jealousy / DJ Culture / Was It Worth It?

“West End Girls” is maybe the unlikeliest number one hit of the 1980s and, at the same time, the most emblematic. It quietly fades in, ambient street noise almost immediately consumed by a ticking drum machine and a wash of synthesizers. Then, the bass gives away the song’s primary melodic hook, to be sung later when the chorus comes around. However, the verses are rapped, only this hip-hop approximation has more in common with Blondie’s “Rapture” than Run DMC or even the Sugar Hill Gang. What’s more, the rap is delivered in a slightly posh, unapologetically fey, white, British male voice, so lacking in swagger or braggadocio anyone hearing it for the first time today might struggle to even discern that it’s a rap. The sung chorus, however, is catchy enough to pull all of it—the rap, the synths, the soulful female backing vocals into focus, creating a vivid portrait of a modern, diverse London rustling with class boundaries (the “East End Boys” versus the titular figures), everything suffused with a mid-1980s urban ennui.

That this most British song not only topped the charts in the UK but also in the US was an unexpected coup for this cheekily-named duo (comprised of vocalist Neil Tennant and instrumentalist Chris Lowe), but it also must’ve been daunting to reach such great heights so early on. “West End Girls” remains Pet Shop Boys’ best-known, career-defining song, but even in the US, they weren’t exactly one hit wonders, scoring four more top ten hits within the next two years. All of them are on Discography, which plainly, dutifully collects the band’s British singles in chronological order, from 1986 to 1991. Album purists would probably find the very concept an abomination, especially as the four albums this compilation draws upon (PleaseActuallyIntrospective and Behaviour—the Pets love their one-word titles) are all worth hearing, and diverse enough to carry the same weight in the band’s overall, um, discography. Regardless, in this case I prefer the greatest hits simply because, taken altogether, this is a brilliant run of singles, both consistent and far-reaching enough to stand with any other of the decade.*

In their singles immediately following “West End Girls”, PSB almost resemble a synth-duo equivalent of Steely Dan in how they wed hummable melodies and arena-sized pop hooks with knowing (if not quite as pitch-black) satire. “Opportunities” spells out what a calculated, lucrative game pop music is with bell-like clarity (and insider knowledge—Tennant, after all, was formerly a journalist for Smash Hits magazine), exemplified by that killer chorus, “I’ve got the brains / you’ve got the looks / let’s make lots of money.” Meanwhile, “Suburbia” appears period-iconic to the degree where it could easily soundtrack any John Hughes film, although Tennant’s pleading to “blame the color TV” (among other things) forgoes any sweetness about the suburbs, staying coolly observant while retaining a point of view that could only come from lived-in familiarity with the milieu. Still, it’s telling that “Love Comes Quickly”, the UK follow-up to “West End Girls” was a flop. This had nothing to do with the song’s quality—it’s actually aged better than the singles surrounding it and is one of the band’s own favorite songs to boot—but its utter sincerity and unabashed awe at the Power of Love may have thrown listeners for a loop at the time (especially those used to hearing such advice from the likes of Huey Lewis and the News).

With the singles from Actually (1987), PSB elevate their status from exceptional to era-defining. They accomplish this primarily by subverting the very notion of what a pop song can contain and express, often concealing its true meaning under layers of irony, allowing for multiple, conflicting readings. Musically, “It’s A Sin” is “West End Girls” on crack, ramping up the urgency to disco-era “I Will Survive” levels, wringing grandiose drama out of something as elemental and omnipresent as Catholic guilt. In the first verse, Tennant reaches across the entire spectrum of sinful admissions: “When I look back upon my life / it’s always with a sense of shame / I’ve always been the one to blame.” However, in the second verse, he sings, “At school they taught me how to be / So pure in thought and word and deed / They didn’t quite succeed.” Again, the lyrics are just broad enough to be open to interpretation, but consider the phrase “pure in thought and deed”, along with Tennant’s foppish demeanor. Watch the video, directed by Derek Jarman, for god’s sake. Even without knowledge of Tennant’s homosexuality (he’d publicly come out around the time of Discography’s release), it’s not difficult to discern what one of the sins, or perhaps even the biggest one Neil’s singing about is—that is, if you’re attuned to it. In 1987, “It’s A Sin” might not have become the band’s second UK chart topper had these lyrics been more explicit and less coded.

For the next two years, Tennant and Lowe could seemingly do no wrong with the record-buying public while sneaking in a depth of heady content not commonly found at the top of the pops. “What Have I Done To Deserve This?” revivifies ‘60s blue-eyed soul icon Dusty Springfield, giving her an up-to-date glossy ‘80s sheen while expertly complementing her perennial strengths as a vocalist and mere presence. The resulting girl/boy duet between her and Tennant, sung in the guise of ex-lovers, startles for how smashingly their two disparate voices go together (today, it’s also drily amusing for the fact that Springfield was also closeted at the time). “Domino Dancing” delves into Latin freestyle, going so far to employ Lewis Martinee, producer of chart-topping girl group Expose. Gleefully piling on live horns and flamenco guitars over a tart electro backdrop, the track exploits a then-hot trend, but it’s far more sophisticated and complex than the stuff it draws from, and its video’s slight homoerotic bent further muddies just who the song is about and whom for.

Even on relatively simpler compositions such as “Heart” (written for and rejected by Madonna!) and a radical, electrodance cover of the Elvis Presley/Willie Nelson chestnut “Always On My Mind”, PSB continue to push boundaries and make great pop music by appealing as much to the mind as, well, the heart. This apotheosis reaches an early peak on “Rent”. A gently percolating ode to transactional love and affection (“I love you / you pay my rent,” the indelible chorus goes), it seems like nothing more than that on first listen, a personal equivalent of the professional relationship proposed in “Opportunities”. The decidedly heterosexual video supports this reading, but come on: the title alone conjures up thoughts of the term “rent-boy” for a specific swath of listeners. It’s just as likely Neil is singing about a gay relationship as a straight one, or a prostitute/john one, or even a dominant/submissive combo. As its gleaming synth pop helps to wash everything down easily, the song’s carefully-chosen lyrics suggest that even the most genuinely loving and equal relationship is not entirely devoid of transaction, whether it’s monetary, nurturing or taking shape in the form of, say, compromise.

As PSB slipped off the US charts for good (“Domino Dancing” was their last top 40 hit), their ambition skyrocketed. Introspective (1988), a club-centric LP with an average track length of six-minutes-plus conveys this, especially on “Left To My Own Devices”. Helmed by uber-producer Trevor Horn (ABC, Yes, The Art of Noise), it’s purposely baroque, overstuffed with strings (both fake and real), dramatic harp glissandos and enough drama for an entire opera. Even with the single edit slashed down to just under five minutes from the eight minute LP version, you sense PSB applying this kitchen-sink approach to a pop song simply because they can. Behaviour (1990) leaves behind the club for the cinema. Among its three selections, “So Hard” might be as hummable as “Heart” and constructed from the same string-synth stabs found in “Always On My Mind” but it also substitutes lovesick plentitudes for musings one might find in an existentialist noir or maybe even an Antonioni picture (“We’ve both given up smoking / cause it’s fatal / so whose matches are those?”); alas, even a silver screen might prove too small for “Jealousy”, a slow building lament forever threatening to transform into a lachrymose Broadway showstopper, which it kind of does with its sudden, massive orchestral fanfare outro.

These are all terrific songs, but none of them are as touching, eloquent or simply perfect as the remaining Behaviour single, “Being Boring”. Another lengthy, lushly orchestrated mid-tempo ballad, it announces a far more mature and refined PSB. The song’s narrator reflects on being young and “find(ing) inspiration in anyone who’s gone and opened up a closing door.” From there, he’s off to find himself, having “bolted” past that closing door; change is inevitable as the decades fly by, but as he notes in the chorus, at least “we were never being boring / we had too much time to find for ourselves.” Not until the third verse, however, does he reveal the song’s true agenda: “All the people I was kissing / some were dead and some are missing / in the nineteen-nineties.” It’s no stretch to read this as an AIDS elegy, one made all the more haunting and resonant by the following lines:

“I never dreamt that I would get to be
The creature that I always meant to be
But I thought in spite of dreams
You’d be sitting somewhere here with me.”

For a band often accused of being too clever or arch, this is powerful stuff—sentimental, yes, but deeply felt. The masks PSB tend to cloak their songs in aren’t fully lifted—AIDS is never mentioned by name—but “Being Boring” is a key turning point in their discography, although Discography itself tapers off somewhat after it. Following another wacky cover only notable for setting a magisterial U2 standard to a sequencer rhythm and mashing it together with a Frankie Valli oldie, we get two new, previously unreleased songs, both promoted as singles around the compilation’s release. You may not remember them because neither is in the same class as “West End Girls” or even “Domino Dancing”.

Still, they’re each significant for another reason. “DJ Culture” extends Behaviour’s fixation on dancefloor decadence and after-hours melancholia and once again returns to the spoken verse/sung chorus well. Dreaming of “living in a satellite fantasy” but struggling to articulate what that actually means, it’s cerebral to a fault, almost: in the final verse, Tennant raps, “Bury the past, empty the shelf / decide it’s time to reinvent yourself.” On “Was It Worth It?”, he elaborates further, claiming, “I reserve the right to live / my life this way and I don’t give / a damn when I hear people say / I’ll pay the price that others pay.” He sings this defiantly, triumphantly over an euphoric disco-house beat—it’s a grand moment of release, of coming clean, feeling miles away from the conflicted narrator of “It’s A Sin”. Concluding Discography with these two particular tracks is no arbitrary decision (even relegating “Miserablism”, one of their sharpest songs from this era, to a B-side): thematically, it neatly closes one door for PSB and bolts open another. As we will see some entries on, this action will prove tremendously liberating for Tennant and Lowe, arguably encouraging/allowing them to create their very best work.

Up next: Really Deep Thoughts.

*Madonna, the era’s greatest singles artist, bar none, doesn’t appear on 100 Albums because even her best compilation, The Immaculate Collection is flawed, excluding great songs and substituting inferior remixes and edits of others.



“Being Boring”: