Stranglers - The Saga of the Men in Black

Emerging on the scene right alongside the very first wave of punk in 1976, the Stranglers rode that wave from the start, while standing out, thanks to their uncommonly sharp musicianship, from the hundreds of bands swarming up from basements in every English city that same year. Alongside the Damned, Ultravox and the Clash, they were among the first British punk bands to land a record deal and climb their country's mainstream charts.

The line-up is unusual for a punk band: alongside the voice (and guitar) of Hugh Cornwell, whose cavernous, mocking tone would become a reference point for many future gothic bands, the full-bodied bass of Jean Jacques Burnel, and the brawny attack of the sinister drummer Jet Black, there's the virtuoso Hammond (and synth) playing of Dave Greenfield, a close relative of that "old school" which, in those very years, was already showing unmistakable signs of a latent crisis. Greenfield, in any case, would hardly have been out of place tackling the acrobatics typical of earlier rock movements, whether psychedelic or progressive.

What does link the Stranglers to the clichés of the new movement, on the other hand, is a strong irreverent streak and a very stripped-down, aggressive style of songwriting, even if it's paradoxically made almost baroque by the presence of keyboards, whose micro-digressions, combined with those of the rhythm section, often take on a psychedelic flavour.

The debut album, IV/Rattus Norvegicus — whose title alone, prosaically referencing the "sewer rat", makes its intent clear — sets out, almost too openly, to rehabilitate everything that "common decency" usually despises: and it's with this approach that the band rolls out brazen tracks like "Peaches", "Get A Grip (on Yourself)" and "Hanging Around", which would rightfully take their place among the great songs of "cultured" punk.

Because of their attitude, but above all because of some rather explicit lyrics, the band has often been accused of misogyny (the already-mentioned "Peaches" being the classic example, with its line "walking on the beaches looking at the… peaches!"), while their dark-tinged look, quite unusual for 1977, has seen them branded as "fascist" — whether because of references to Norse mythology that reached their peak with The Raven in 1979, or because of the obscure esoteric ideas that led them to theorize the existence of particular extraterrestrials, the "meninblack", creatures who take on human form and live among us unbeknownst to us, deciding the fate of the world. If we add to all this their reluctance to deny any rumour about themselves, whether regarding their political leanings or their sarcastic, contemptuous attitude towards women, along with the various brushes with the law that all four members seem to have had (some more than others), we get a sense of the controversial fascination the Stranglers exerted during a period of turbulent social and artistic upheaval.

1977 is also the year of their second album, the explosive No More Heroes, whose title track can easily be ranked among the manifestos of an era that saw punk's iconoclastic fury tear down everything that had been an object of worship in rock up to that point ("No-more-heroes-anymore!"). "No More Heroes" is simply the logical continuation, in the same tones but also on mirrored levels, of the themes already present on their successful debut; and yet, as one of its finest songs puts it, and as we'll see later on, …something better change!

The concept album that followed, Black And White (1978), sums up the first part of their career and confirms a creative vein that seems truly inexhaustible, while also shifting attention, albeit still in a subterranean way, towards that German electronic music which would prove so influential on the nascent new wave: but we're still at an embryonic stage, so much so that the songwriting leans towards a scornful brand of rock, even taking on shades of white reggae, as in the case of the gorgeous yet aggressive "Nice 'N' Sleazy". The punk trilogy is celebrated on the live album Live (X Cert), which, between one insult and another hurled by Cornwell at the audience, highlights — if there was ever any need to — the band's remarkable ease and technical command on stage.

Just as most punk shooting stars were fading out to make way for the newborn new wave movement, the second phase of the Stranglers' artistic trajectory began — one that would see them flirt first with electronics and later with pop, and that would allow them to move with great assurance within the musical coordinates of the new wave bands as well.

In 1979 came The Raven, an album met with a rather cold critical reception, as reviewers failed to grasp the band's shift towards the robotic, Mitteleuropean suggestions of a group that had, up to that point, been essentially a pure rock and roll outfit.

This phase represents the peak of their career: the album opens with the sumptuous keyboard phrasing of "Longships", moves through the obsessive bassline of "Dead Loss Angeles", concedes something to the charts with "Nuclear Device" and "Duchess" (on which an incredible Greenfield unspools a positively extraordinary keyboard line), and arrives at the robotic and/or pseudo-demented rhythms of "Shah Shah A Go Go", "Don't Bring Harry" and above all the gloomy alien march of "Meninblack", on which, in all likelihood, one of those extraterrestrials so often mentioned in the band's wild, tongue-in-cheek interviews is singing. With The Raven, the Stranglers cement their status, having already done so for the punk movement, as one of new wave's leading bands.

Riding the wave of this new course, the four set to work on the even more electronic The Meninblack, another concept album, following Black And White, released in early 1981 (some sources credit it to 1980). Even the title, borrowed from a track on The Raven, makes clear that it's a conceptual continuation of its predecessor, delving further into the theme of the men in black, with a mood that's even more impersonal and sinister, if a touch less inspired. The clearest examples are the spine-chilling waltz that opens the album, "Waltzinblack", punctuated by giggles as indistinct as they are chilling, the Kraftwerk-esque "Waiting For The Meninblack", and the tribute to the man-machine fittingly titled "Manna Machine".

With an iron determination never to stand still, always different yet faithful to their trademark sound, at the end of 1981 Cornwell & co. released a record that marks a new turn, this time towards pop, wrong-footing even their (by now) die-hard following of electronic neo-punksters. La Folie is the album that gave us "Golden Brown", a pop gem that unfolds over a synth harmony played like a harpsichord and Cornwell's dreamy vocals, which climbed to the top of the British charts, as well as the title track "La Folie" itself, a decadent slow number sung in elegant French by bassist Jean Jacques Burnel.

The time finally comes to cash in with the celebratory Collection 1977-1982, led by the previously unreleased single "Strange Little Girl", which revisits, admittedly less successfully, the romantic themes dear to the more melodic tracks on "La Folie".

By now the connection with audiences in England and Europe is a given, even if the same can't be said of American crowds, who would forever remain the band's unattainable dream; so, wasting no more time, in 1982 they put out Feline, with which they reach their peak in terms of refinement and meticulous attention to arrangement. The album, with its alluring "black on black" cover depicting a panther, leans more heavily into synth sounds while still embracing — indeed intensifying — the melodic explorations of the previous record, embroidering them with exquisite, Latin-tinged acoustic guitar flourishes: the result is a seductive exercise in British pop warmed by the Spanish sun; the hits "Midnight Summer Dream" and "European Female", sung by J.J. Burnel, are especially telling in this regard. Both tracks found a fitting showcase in equally exquisite music videos, the second of which draws on the themes of "Cat People", depicting the band grappling with a "femme fatale" who, locked in a cage, takes on the form of the dangerous feline.

That brings us to 1984 and Aural Sculpture, which already shows the first signs of a creativity and bite gradually running out of steam, caught between chart ambitions — duly achieved, as the single "Skin Deep" still scored impressive results both in the UK and across continental Europe, particularly in Germany — and a half-hearted return to their early sound. One thing certainly worth remembering about this record is the aforementioned "Skin Deep", whose video shows the four members peeling the skin off their faces like snake-men, only to reappear, snake-like, always the same as before: a fitting metaphor for their musical journey, which has kept them recognisable despite all their changes. The new effort, given a lukewarm critical reception that filed them among the "punk movement's sell-outs", can nonetheless boast a side A of absolute quality, which sums up in 20 minutes an eight-year artistic journey lived at the highest level, with uncommon personality and depth.

The road of slow decline, now that they've firmly embraced an increasingly sweetened pop sound, continues in 1986 with Dreamtime, which yielded the excellent, deeply melancholic track "Always The Sun", and reaches its epilogue in 1990 with the genuinely poor 10, which brought about the departure of frontman Hugh Cornwell (who would be replaced by the capable Paul Roberts) — though not before unexpectedly scoring, at the eleventh hour, a fifth place on the American singles charts with "Sweet Smell Of Success", a result that reeks of irony: a rather meagre reward for a career that deserved greater fortune in America too, achieved moreover with an entirely minor song.

The story of the Nineties is that of a band with very little left to say, but which, thanks to the prestige of its name, retains a hardcore fanbase in its native England and across northern Europe. Backed by their support, the band keeps churning out rather faceless albums without a break, barely made credible by the brilliant vocal talents of the new frontman, who seems like a happy synthesis of Peter Murphy and, indeed, Hugh Cornwell.

Still, the live album 5 Live 01, released in 2001, remains genuinely noteworthy: on it, the talented Paul Roberts tackles, without missing a beat, all of the band's greatest hits, resulting in a double live album that every fan of the group should own. Just as recently, the first albums were reissued, packed with rarities and b-sides, and met with solid sales — a sign that the storied name of the Stranglers isn't one easily forgotten.

As if to confirm the curious trend of the new millennium, which has seen the authoritative comeback of several Eighties legends seemingly condemned to permanent oblivion (The Fall and Wire, just to name two), 2004 saw the release of Norfolk Coast. The album, surprisingly released by EMI after the band's years of wandering among minor independent labels throughout the Nineties, shows encouraging signs of a resurgence, recapturing, quite convincingly, the old spirit of the IV Rattus Norvegicus days. But however positive this signal may be, it's ultimately of secondary importance: the Stranglers had already written their prestigious chapter in the great book of rock long before.

The same impression holds true for the following albums, 2006's Suite XVI and 2012's Giants, both of which show a clear continuity with the pop/rock direction the English band chose to pursue. While the former still finds room here and there for a rawer, more punk edge, the latter presents a wholly retrospective homage to the Seventies, with their reworked blues and the melodic flights of a certain English psych sound. Despite the band's ability to put together a handful of decent compositions, in which Lou Reed-ish echoes sit alongside melodic nostalgia, the overall picture is undermined by a clear lack of conceptual depth. One gets the impression of a band trying to survive its own legacy through sometimes bizarre and generally scattered devices, rather than reflecting on its own creativity and artistic future.

2013 saw the release of Feel It Live!, a document of the Giants tour. The album shows a band struggling to recapture the fury of their punk golden years, while also remaining distant both from the electro experiments and the dark-wave digressions that marked other chapters of a now nearly forty-year career. The Stranglers come across, more than anything, as an honest alt-rock band, with an undeniably important back catalogue and their well-known standout technical skills. Their edge, however, comes across as a little blunted, and the more recent compositions almost never hold up against the classic tracks, inevitably crushed under the weight of an encyclopaedic discography and lacking in originality. The current line-up still features singer/guitarist Baz Warne (who since 2006 has taken on the role once held by Hugh Cornwell and Paul Roberts) alongside founding members Jean-Jacques Burnel (bass and vocals), Dave Greenfield (keyboards) and Jet Black (drums). Hearing the synths of "The Raven" again is always a treat, as is immersing oneself in the gems of their very earliest period (their 1977 debut "Rattus Norvegicus" is revisited in large part). Incurable nostalgics won't be short of pleasure in the new versions of their best-known staples (the closing "Duchess" and "Tank" above all): this record is aimed chiefly at them. It seems far less likely, however, that "Feel It Live!" will succeed in broadening the band's fanbase or drawing new converts to the Stranglers' shores.

It takes eight years to arrive at Dark Matters, the new album and the first studio effort without Dave Greenfield (who died of Covid in 2020) and Jet Black (forced to step down in 2015 for age-related health reasons). Two blows that would probably have sidelined anyone except Burnel, now the last original member still in steady service, whose background in karate must surely have helped the band respond with renewed strength. The album builds on the 8 tracks (out of 11 total) already completed while Greenfield was still part of the line-up, and on an enormous stockpile of ideas from JJ (reportedly as many as three hundred), which draw both on a tribute to his prematurely departed friend and on the need to stay true to one of the most iconic sounds of the last 50 years. The gamble pays off, thanks mainly to two singles that leave their mark ("And If You Should See Dave…", "If Something's Gonna Kill Me (It Might As Well Be Love)"), but the whole album feels more inspired than the various instalments that make up their recent catalogue. "This Song" is punk-rock Englishness in its purest form, while "Breathe" is a 3/4 number that recalls the best moments of Matt Johnson. The two souls of the Stranglers sound (Greenfield's keyboards and Burnel's bass) remain the load-bearing pillars on which to build an album that rediscovers good songwriting and perhaps even a purpose: coming to terms with the passing of time and its artistic consequences. A remarkable achievement, given the circumstances.

Contributions by Michele Guerrini ("Giants"), Claudio Lancia ("Feel It Live!") and Paolo Ciro ("Dark Matters")

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google