Music from the far corners of the past can surprise you. That is, if you're willing to seek it out. I was reminded of this lesson, when I discovered The Passions last week. I had come upon them by chance, finding their name relegated to a "similar artists" list for Siouxsie and the Banshees on All Music Guide. Scrutinizing the list and listening to some of the other bands, my hope was fading that I'd find a diamond in the rough. The list was populated by bands I either already knew about, or bands whose mediocrity was equal to their obscurity.
It's funny, because in situations like that, where you don't have much prior knowledge to go off of, your criteria for further investigation becomes strangely superficial. Sometimes I won't even click on the link to a band page just because I don't like their name. It's almost like the name itself is wasting my time - which is totally stupid - but that's exactly how I feel. Luckily, The Passions is an endearingly simple name for a band, so I overcame my ignorance and jumped right in to their discography.
I was immediately struck by Thirty Thousand Feet Over China, when I first fired it up on my computer. Cascaded with chorus-slather, echoing guitar and the cloudy vocals of Barbara Gogan, the album is akin to jogging through green mist, down a constantly undulating indoor gym track. The album has a silky, herky-jerk propulsion throughout, where smooth guitar notes float over a rhythm section that sticks fastidiously to reverse-engineered funk. It sounds like the typical recipe for a post-punk pasta, but The Passions pull themselves above most of their contemporaries by simple virtue of cohesive musicianship and energy.
"I'm in Love with a German Film Star", which was the band's one hit before disbanding, opens with some of the richest guitar chords you'll ever hear in your life. Gogan sings, "I'm in love with a German film star, I once saw in a bar/sitting in a corner and in perfect clothes/trying not to pose/ for the cameras and the girls", making no bones about the ridiculousness and inevitability of celebrity obsession. On "The Swimmer", the band misdirects with a slow build, muted guitar echoes and reverse snare splashes, which give way to a rapid guitar flourish. The drums and bass are dragged in tow, while Gogan moans so smoky and rich over the top of it all.
There's a presiding sense of controlled experimentation and indulgence throughout Thirty Thousand Feet Over China. You can hear it chattering on the reverse snares and elongated jam of "Small Stones". You can hear it squeal in the synthesizer highlights of "Runaway". You can hear it sway in the echoed percussion and the flange-muffled tremolo of the guitar on "Skin Deep". You can hear it mince up songs at the beginning and toss songs off at the end. It's a looseness that feels right. Since The Passions' music is a fundamental mix of smooth and groove, any probes into studio trickery are welcome eccentricities, rather than tedious subversions of pop song craft like many other post-punk acts.
Thirty Thousand Feet Over China is not going to change your life or set your ears on fire, but it is a solid album by a band largely forgotten by time. In many ways, the album is a sort of foamy, midnight lullabye, where even the expression of anxiety or disenchantment sound like sweet little nothings in the ears. The Passions may ask you to jump aboard the mood-train, but their skill at constructing songs and weaving in gentle melodies keeps your perspective sober. Overall, the album is a very fine effort that speaks directly to how unfair the amnesia of music culture and history can be.
