by Buzz Drainpipe, scratched into the condensation of a pub window somewhere near closing time
If Utoopia gave us the neon afterlife, Dave Morrison with Joe Soap drag us back to the graveyard of real life: rain-slicked pavements, wet cigarettes, ghosts that drink pints and still owe rent. 1981 is what happens when a bar band stares too long into its own reflection and realizes the jukebox has been whispering back.
Morrison doesn’t sing so much as mutter in key—a sort of defeated romanticism halfway between Ian Dury and an unamused saint. Joe Soap, bless them, play like they’re trying to remember what rock’n’roll felt like before Thatcher turned the amps into metaphors. The guitars jangle like broken pint glasses; the rhythm section moves like clock hands in a blackout.
There’s a track—“Raincoats & Regret”—that could’ve been a hit if it hadn’t been too honest. “King’s Cross Angel” sounds like it was recorded on a payphone between sobs and laughter. And then there’s “Monday Will Come,” which feels like it never did.
The real horror here isn’t supernatural. It’s temporal. 1981 traps you in that eternal pub-night minute before the lights go up and everyone looks older than they were a song ago. It’s the ghost of England humming to itself after the tape runs out.
Buzz’s cigarette burns:
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“Pub rock as séance.”
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“A pint glass half empty of blood.”
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“If the devil ever clocked in for a shift, this would be on the radio.”
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