By the time Vulture Culture hit shelves in early 1985, The Alan Parsons Project had already made a name crafting cerebral pop rock that sounded like the soundtrack to a very expensive hallucination. But this album? It’s a sharper beast—sleeker, colder, and wired with the tension of a world slowly being sold back to itself.
The title doesn’t hide behind metaphor: Vulture Culture is a concept album dipped in red neon and wrapped in shrink-wrap satire. This is polished dystopia disguised as pop—Parsons and lyricist Eric Woolfson serve up capitalist critique in smooth synth textures and funky robot grooves. It's the sound of the '80s taking a long look in the mirror and not quite liking what it sees.
"Let's Talk About Me" opens like a Wall Street mantra set to a laser-lit dancefloor. It's narcissism as national anthem, with a smug protagonist whose ego could power a boardroom. The bass line struts, the synths shimmer, and you’re not sure whether to dance or flinch.
The album leans heavily into digital funk and sci-fi soul—“Separate Lives” and “Sooner or Later” glide through headphone corridors like elevator music on a space station, while “Days Are Numbers (The Traveller)” stands out as a bittersweet ballad for a civilization in slow decay. It’s where the album’s heart flickers—haunted, human, and floating above a synth-soaked abyss.
The production is immaculate, as always with Parsons. But here, the clean lines feel more like sterile hallways than cathedral vaults—reflecting a world of glass offices and burnt-out satellites, where identity is barcoded and time feels leased, not lived.
Vulture Culture is both slick and sinister. It doesn’t ask if we’re being consumed—it tells us we already are. The vultures aren’t circling; they’re us. Suited up, plugged in, and singing along.
No comments:
Post a Comment