Talk Talk

Waiting for the colour of spring

Let me, let me

Let me breathe

The artistic metamorphosis of Talk Talk is a fascinating phenomenon, arguably the most incredible evolution in the history of rock. In the mid-80s the English band cast aside the synth-pop wonders built for the “charts”, delivered above all on their second album, “It's My Life”, heading with almost divine grace towards a melodically dreamlike, intrinsically delicate and intricate sound. The group led by the late, much-missed Mark Hollis remains a genuine singularity to this day. Their second life also anticipated the classic moods of post-rock, standing as a shining example of unconditional compositional freedom to be handed down to future generations. The path the English band followed to shed their skin for good is a trail painted in a thousand colours. A path whose blossoming flowers give off intoxicating scents.

The road that would lead Hollis and co. to the figurative Eden of their 1988 masterpiece can be traced through the eight tracks of a pivotal album released two years earlier, in 1986: “The Colour Of Spring”. Middle-earth, to put it in Tolkien's terms. The tree from which to draw the lifeblood for the future. It's thanks to this record that Talk Talk changed course. It's above all within its folds that we find both the seeds and the first shoots of a future quite distant from their earlier past.

Talk Talk's blossoming takes shape in the songs of a milestone in the history of music as a whole. Had Hollis and co. never given birth to this record, the equally seminal “Spirit Of Eden” and “Laughing Stock” would never have seen the light of day. Those two later works owe practically everything to their predecessor, the album that set in motion that unrepeatable metamorphosis mentioned above. The chameleon is born amid the movements of “The Colour of Spring”, wrapped in its eight petals. Suddenly, a heart-warming pop romanticism enters the scene alongside instrumental rarefactions of ecstatic glow, while Hollis's voice slowly takes on angelic features, exulting in joy and pain, dream and regret, light and shadow.

Hyperbole aside, it's (of all things) spring that Hollis symbolically chose as the season to set off towards an unexpected future. Spring, with its natural wonders, its repeated metamorphoses and its endless fascinations. The gorgeous cover art depicting brightly coloured butterflies, chosen as a symbol of vitality and rebirth, was once again designed by James Marsh, who had been with the band since their debut and would stay with them right up to their final release.

“The Colour of Spring” is also the first record to feature a considerable and impressive roster of musicians. Most notable are Steve Winwood on organ and David Rhodes on guitar, alongside the likes of Robbie McIntosh, Danny Thompson, Gaynor Sadler, Ian Curnow, Tim Friese-Greene (active not only as producer but also as a performer), David Roach, and Martin Ditcham. A wealth of excellent players brought in to give greater breadth to songs that diverge from the instrumentation and intentions of the past, right from the start. Harp, harmonica, saxophone, double bass all pop up, and, dulcis in fundo, the Ambrosia Choir of London along with the children's choir from “Miss Speake's” school.

The percussion lays down a rhythmic carpet that's less nervy, though no less carefully crafted. The dimension Hollis's band inhabits here is precisely dreamlike and consistently rarefied. It's an expansiveness that enchants through gentle, celestial, conciliatory melodic writing. The scope widens, space is occupied differently. What strikes you are the gaps, the silences between one chord and the next, underlining a different artistic need. Hollis leads the listener from the club to the sofa, from the street to the living room, from the dancefloor to a utopian comfort zone in which to dream with “open ears”, letting themselves be carried away by a voice that conjures happiness and beauty with apparent simplicity.

“Life's What You Make It” is the lead single – which even saw them take the stage at Sanremo – and it sets things straight with its irritated gait, airy keyboards in the background, and a guitar that slips away with a restless killer riff, while a handful of piano notes hint at an unusually unpredictable streak. It's one of the last tracks written before the album was finished, and, all things considered, the record lacks a more immediately catchy opener. The message is direct: work towards a better future, without dwelling too much on the past. Life is in the present, after all. A call to the change already underway, one that still sat high in the charts before the band's definitive departure from mainstream channels, in favour of a more introverted inclination, one decidedly harder going for the wider public.

But it's within the fabric of the opening “Happiness Is Easy” that the new efflorescence truly comes to light. Michael Hedges-style guitar tugs alternate with the restlessness of the electric bass, while the organ and childlike choir spread an enchanting harmony that counterbalances everything else. It's an atmosphere that's energetic, magical and caressing all at once.

The following “I Don't Believe in You” raises the bar even further. Not a trace remains of the luminous synth-pop of the earliest days. Hollis excels in a melancholic, aching vocal performance. He is composed and afflicted, seduced and abandoned. As Gaynor Sadler's harp suddenly ushers in the disturbed guitar solo, amid mournful, carpet-like arpeggios.

Promises so golden

Years have proved them wrong

I'm trying to leave some self-respect

Any way you say it

Our decline goes on

But your pride won’t heed it

It’s the same old song

With “April 5th”, the record begins moving toward those long pauses that will define future albums. It's the opening track of a harmonic alignment in which time and space take on a decisively different value, stretching toward boundaries never reached before. Just a few piano notes beneath Hollis's voice, rising here light and airy, there placid and calm. Robbie McIntosh's resonator guitar and David Roach's saxophone accompany our man on a slow ascent toward heaven.

“Living In Another World” picks up the thread opened by the hit “Life’s What You Make It”, adding Mark Feltham's harmonica to the framework, along with Winwood's expansive organ and the sinuous bass of trusty Paul Webb from “Give It Up”, both backing Hollis in his refusal to give up on universal love. The change is whispered, and it's necessary for an inner (and artistic) salvation that finally feels possible.

Tim Friese-Greene's minimal electronics combined with Hollis's composed, at times impetuous piano on “Chameleon Day” essentially outline the future of Talk Talk. Three minutes and twenty seconds of pure magic. It's as if Hollis and Friese-Greene were holding back the energy shaking their souls, taming it amid the immaculate pauses of a vibrant, timeless ballad. By contrast, a rediscovered positivity gracefully takes over in the closing “Time It’s Time”. After a gentle start, the Ambrosia Choir takes centre stage with all its old-time verve, forging a kind of bridge, a sort of special with the organic arrangements—certainly less epic and more restrained—placed between verse and chorus. Yet another miracle from an exceptional album. An unrepeatable watershed.

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23/02/2020