The Black Kids Are Alright
Listening again to an album I’ve been enjoying for the last few seasons of the year, one of the few reliable happy pills in a long dark winter of the South Dakotan soul, some sunshine from Jacksonville reved up through heart-on-the sleeve 80s cheese.
A lot of critics panned this album, including my usually spot-on heroes over at Sound Opinions. They were bugged by the trying-too-hard awkward adolescence of the thing. They’ve all got a point. The album is soaked in the sexy, but it’s like a 13-year old trying on her older sister’s makeup and fishnets for the first time. Kinda icky.
Sure, they’ve got a lot of growing up to do, but the innocence and honesty won me over. As a kid who first ingested these sorts of Cure-pop grooves while sitting alone in his room imagining the kicks he wasn’t getting, I understand the rock ‘n roll fantasies of a bunch of nice young people who met up in Sunday School, hoping for the opportunity to be naughty, but you know, not like too much.
