Cars

The urban chaos, the frantic and disordered rhythms of a metropolis. Any given corner of that North America preparing to bless the eagerly awaited Los Angeles Olympic Games. A smiling but tense Panorama, sickly yet also very cool, like a nice iced Martini to be sipped with a gorgeous blonde by your side. And then those shoulder pads, the manifesto of an elegance in search of protective gear, almost an ideal suit of armor, useful for appearing stronger and more resilient. And Ric Ocasek, though tall and resembling Superpippo, really does need a fine body-guard. An intellectual well-versed in disposable consumption, a postmodern artist who doesn't reject the avant-garde but prefers the charts. A new prototype of yuppie, moving nostalgically through the hardships of the contemporary era. With his four friends, in little more than five years he experimented with updating the canons of '50s pop-rock, stuffing them with glam temptations, disco rhythms, and new wave allusions. A smart songbook, at times cartoonish, but always with a dramatic aura behind its fragile shoulders.

An artist tout court, Pippo Ocasek, a Warholian disciple, not just one of the many, thanks to that usual charisma that makes all the difference. And after a series of album covers with ambiguous smiles and a solo outing that feels much like a warm-up, here he is with his playmates aiming for the big target: namely, showing up the British invasion crowd, but also Midas himself, Michael Jackson.

The fifth album by the Cars represents the definitive arrival at the synth-pop formula, a plastic sound that can and must please everyone, without forgetting the weapons that made the brand distinctive over the previous five years. Not a mere container of songs, ten to be exact, but a genuine status symbol, an object to be flaunted proudly at a party, on a romantic date, or at a business dinner. Good for all seasons and all occasions. It's no easy task to contribute to the industrial cycle of modern times by crafting, or attempting to craft, a successful product. Ric calls in the now-celebrated Robert John Lange, Mutt to his friends, the mastermind behind the worldwide explosion of Ac/Dc, effectively the sixth member of Def Leppard, with whom he turned the American charts upside down in 1983 thanks to "Phyromania", a bold and successful attempt to merge heavy metal with pop through the use of sampling and a deluxe production.

Million-dollar stories. Divisive stories. Some applaud, others turn up their noses, the typical reactions professional craftsmen must endure. But Ric-Pippo has an intellectual air on his side that gives him an extra edge. Some have tried to turn their backs on him, with the typical brit-snob attitude, but cultural circles adore him, with that funny yet charming face, the kind of ugly that people can love. He cannot fail.

So here he is, showing up at the debut ball of 1984, artfully tousled, tie half-loosened, with "Hello Again", barely four minutes of super pop-rock, high energy with multi-layered vocal parts, sprightly keyboards and synthetic guitars, a subtly moralistic snapshot of these damned social climbers, the ones who want to be there no matter what, for better or worse: "Waiting for the sunshine, standing in the rain", electric, eclectic, dreamers, yet grounded. But also romantic, "Looking For Love": arpeggiated guitar and whistling little keyboards, metallic rhythms, overlapping vocals, an easy up-tempo, classic Cars-style bubblegum embellished with a technological research that keeps pace with the times, never behind, but not quite ahead either. Atmospheric and danceable. Always that elusive middle ground, which magically rewards whoever manages to find it.

"Magic", yet another catchy pop bullet, with fairy-tale choruses, a celebration of the effects of the imminent American summer, globalized and cynical, but oh what sunshine, what legs, hair blowing in the wind at 100 miles an hour in the convertible.

Calculator in hand, it's time for a ballad, just to avoid disrupting the precious blueprints of pop production: "Drive" means sublime melody, borrowed from the most heart-wrenching Elvis, performed with great imitative flair by the blond Ben Orr, the band's bassist, more accustomed than Ocasek to showing up with a rose at his girl's doorstep, endowed with a vocal timbre better suited to a retro style, albeit duly polished and updated with technology. A massive hit, in short, properly backed by a dramatic video, with Pippo Ocasek caught looking pensive to the point of grim, while his young girlfriend (later wife, lucky him, ed.), supermodel Paulina Porizkova, cries hot tears. And the mood turns genuinely dark: whose are those "Stranger Eyes"? A betrayed lover, or one simply waiting, perhaps to get revenge. Or maybe it's one's own dulled gaze after one of those exhausting, maybe not even that satisfying, nights? The fact remains that this stranger is sorely needed. A metaphorical (and pomp-pop) reissue of the chemical journeys once mapped out by Lou Reed?

So are the Cars the Velvet Underground in mass-market form?! A dilemma that crumbles for a moment, swept away by the joyous, frenzied rhythm of "You Might Think", robotic rock'n'roll through which Ocasek voices his obsession with a (poor thing) obsessed conquest for Saturday night. And the video, one of the most charming of its era (though it still holds up now), shows Pippo cutting loose in his cartoon version, chasing his prey by every means possible, eventually turning into King Kong. Too bad that the sunglasses-wearing ape, once he's caught the girl, drops her into the void... The sinister undertone is hard to shake even in avowedly comic situations. Which end quickly, since the three following songs speak the language of disillusionment, failure, and despair, cleverly disguised beneath a disco-ready make-up, sustained as in "It's Not The Night", "For sweet revenge, to declare the games over", more languid in "Why Can't I Have You" ("Baby, let me just brush against you one more time, let me tell you that you're always on my mind"), with choral interjections constantly seasoning Ocasek's spoken delivery. A recipe reprised in "I Refuse", complete with vocoder-altered voices, splashes of synth, muted little guitars, and a metronome that never stops.

So, all is well. A fine album, functional, intelligent, well-tuned, to be enjoyed in the car, savored in the club, used as a morning alarm clock. If only the final, title track didn't blow everything apart: 1984, the industry, pop itself. A new milestone reached by those seven notes, a breathless ballad, a mysterious underground, poetic and allegorical. A song where even Ocasek's typical interpretive key, syncopated and neurotic, shifts register, becoming soft, pacified, sedated. Who is this Jacki who defeats the frenzy of the city, who lights up the metropolitan night, who turns the sun golden, who becomes a home for those most in need, whose absence is missed to the point of aching? The toxic Velvet ghost returns to make itself heard. But it's the backdrop, the melodic-harmonic arrangement, that truly astonishes: a predominantly electronic architecture, handled sonically through the skillful use of the Fairlight, a groundbreaking digital machine capable of sampling and reproducing a myriad of sounds, painting landscapes that are warm, blazing, and then, a moment later, icy and fearful.

Five minutes in which pop becomes ambient, with discreet synthetic horns peeking through, orchestrally filling the spaces. A nightmare that becomes paradise, amid the uncertainty of tomorrow. It is the ultimate destination of the Cars and of Ocasek himself. When the last fires die out, when the city's heart stops beating, everything fades away, as in a fairy tale. Forever.

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10/09/2007