Level 42

World Machine

So many bad memories

Review Score:

(2/10)
It's hard to imagine a world in which Level 42 were once significant. Sadly, however, such a world did exist, one of young men with wedge haircuts, driving secondhand Ford Escorts ('Wheels, innit? Gotta have wheels if yer gonna get skirt, innit?'), and donning white socks with cheap imitation Italian loafers. Those of you who did not grow up in the London suburbs in the 1980s can never appreciate the true horror that was Level 42. The London commuter belt was the spiritual home of jazz-funk, the eminently funkless whitebread musical form purveyed by the Isle of Wight's least welcome exports. Level 42 were the spiritual rulers of the jazz-funkateers, the epitome of music as Thatcherism with twiddly bass lines. This was the sound of post-pub punch-ups, of knee tremblers in the supermarket car-park, of teenaged parties where the host ended up vomiting over his/her parents' wedding album. As the UK turned into a nation of estate agents (that's real estate dealers to American readers), Level 42 were the soundtrack to our nightmare. They epitomised 1980s attitudes: proficiency over inspiration, marketing over content, sales over acclaim. By the time the 39th single from this album was released, one could not pass a psoter of Mark King's gurning visgae without feeling the desire to throw a petrol bomb at it. Yet still the masses flocked: record-breaking runs at the Hammersmith Odeon (then London's leading concert venue), hit after hit after hit, endless TV appearances, and packed dancefloors in clubs with names like Cinderella Rockafella's. This album deserves to be consigned not to the dustbin of history, but to its incinerator. Unless you're still fond of your white socks.

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