In the early ’80s, my family moved from Lexington, Kentucky to Houston, Texas leaving behind a bucolic life of horse farms and mullets, along with my entire universe of friends. In its place came an unfriendly and largely kidless neighborhood that teemed with off-putting creepy crawlies, weed-like grass, and a climate not unlike my image of hell. The transition may have been miserable, but I was soon reborn an MTV baby. I quickly forgot about the move and most of my old friends.
One of the groups I particularly liked from that era was a band from Australia called Icehouse (formerly “Flowers”). Their eponymous debut claimed one low-level video hit. But to my morose sensibilities the album was a masterpiece.
The funny thing about that record is how commercially un-enduring it was. When the CD age arrived, I looked to replace my worn LP, but no such disc existed. For years I searched for its digital re-incarnation. Then I bought a turntable with a digital output and ripped the thing.
Here’s the title track direct from my vinyl copy, pops and all.
I did another search on the band today. It seems that Warner Brothers finally came to their senses last year and re-mastered this wonderfully dark album in honor of its 30th anniversary (1981). Long time coming for a band that deserved more than they got.