ABBA: The Album – (RCA)
By Anthony O’Grady - RAM 24 February 1978
The thing about ABBA is they seem genuinely innocent. ABBA-The Album sees them poised to mop up the whole western world with their brand of pop angelus. Here’s the current scorecard. Pre-ordained success in Australia, England and the continent, guaranteed wide airplay in the United States.>
Maybe this will be the one to crack the U.S. for them – bringing in those
millions upon millions of sales units that, added to sales from the rest of the
world, will make the foursome (fivesome including ever-present manager Stig
Anderson) the best selling (and, presumably, best-loved) musical group in the
world. Bigger than Fleeetwood Mac, Peter Frampton, bigger than The Beatles, than
Elvis…ABBA supreme…in 1976, 1977....
And yes, they want it. Their game plan has been widely pre-publicised in sundry
interviews and the world running up and down the marketing corridors in RCA and
CBS (their U.S. company) is that this time the group is going for the big one.
And in the current supermarket special method of retailing records, they could
even do it. After all, what’s the difference between a Fleetwood Mac album and a
can of deodorant. Nothing really, they just both lie around the house, an
assurance to visitors you’ve got clean tastes. So what’s the difference between
Fleetwood Mac and ABBA? One gets togged up in funky Californian chic and the
other appear on stage in fantasia space travellers’ gear – all metallic-thread
glittering cloaks and shiny, pristine leather boots.
And melody is melody is forever bankable. As ABBA themselves say in
Thank You For The Music, (“I have a
talent / a wonderful thing / ’cause everyone listens / when I start to sing”).
Good observation, group – whenever an ABBA song wafts across the ozone you may
hate it, but damn if you don’t remember the melody forever. It’s their clever
way of sticking in a hook-line about 20 times a song.
And yet, they’re innocents abroad really – very conscious of their stylistic
debts to English and American pop originators, seemingly in awe of people they
regard as the big boys. Eagle for
instance seems to be not only about the wide-winged bird, it’s about the group –
(“I’m under their spell / I love hearing the stories / that they tell”).
And Take A Chance On Me, (“If you
change your mind / I’m the first in line”) is maybe a love-hurts song but its
also fairly indicative of ABBA’s attitude to pop domination – they want it, but
they’re not gonna be grabby for godsake, they’ll politely wait their turn.
Similarly, their reaction to audience hysteria and the sort of media siege they
were subjected to on their Oz tour is summed up by
I’m A Marionette (“Just a little smile / that’s what they say /
You’ll look better on the photograph”). Pretty subservient stuff. Consider how
John Lennon in his early Beatles era reacted to the same pressures with sardonic
anger, Revolution, and deliberate
gobbledegook I Am The Walrus. So you
wonder, what chance ABBA?
After all, in Thank You For The Music
they admit (“I’m a bit of a bore”) but (“thank you for the music / I’ve been so
lucky”).
ABBA-The Album shows them making
strenuous efforts to branch away from simple failsafe hook-lines (as in
Mamma Mia) into more sophisticated hip
easy listening. Some songs are lengthy work-outs (over eight minutes yet!) and
there’s even a mini-musical (Yeah, a concept!)
But while the melodies are mostly sublime, the rhythm section does them in
nearly every time. Y’see ABBA are tied to an ever repetitious drum/bass guitar
time called Euro-beat.
It doesn’t matter that they sometimes use a funky black drummer (at least they
did on stage on their Oz tour) every beat in every song click-clocks like a
metronome from start to finish. No fancy drum fills or off-beats, no freedom for
the bass-line. The result is a steady bottom end, but it’s like trying to rock
inside a straight-jacket. Listen to the rhythm section on
Hole In Your Soul – their stab at a
shrill, hard rock song. The vocals and arrangements are there but down below
there’s another sterile repetitious beat, and for anyone who’s ever rocked, its
like molasses being poured into your dancing shoes. Ugh
Fleetwood Mac and Peter Frampton don’t have anything like ABBA’s finesse at
orchestrating and top dressing melodies, (The
Name Of The Game and I’m A Marionette
are arguably two of the best-arranged pieces of pop released in the 1970s), but
they do have cojunes down bellow, and that’s where ABBA still miss out.
The kids and parents of Australia haven’t minded that yet. But so what? Ozzies
are notorious for not being able to clap in time. So obviously ABBA still can’t
miss here. But in the U.S. supermarket culchure? Hmmmmmmmmmm.
