DOGS D'AMOUR

KATE BUSH - HOUNDS OF LOVE

EMI, 1985

Lucky dogs.

I've been sitting here for an hour trying to figure out what I can possibly say that would do justice to this utterly spellbinding album. It's an entire world of its own, a law unto itself. Listening to it is like being able to go back and visit your favourite dream at will. For me, it's Kate Bush's single finest artistic statement, feeling as it does like a coherent whole rather than, as with her previous albums, a collection of (admittedly breathtaking) songs. This was intentional on Kate's part, as the album is actually divided into two suites: the first, Hounds of Love, comprises standalone songs, most of which were released as singles, and the second, The Ninth Wave... well, we'll get to that soon enough.

Beginning with "Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)", the tone is set for the rest of the album immediately: lush, densely layered synthesisers, undulating basslines, drums being hit with bigger drums, and soaring above it all, the absolutely wonderful, ethereal vocals of La Bush herself. As with all great art, this song was misinterpreted to an astounding degree upon release. The "deal" spoken of in the title makes its appearance in the chorus:

If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places.

This, of course, caused a thousand literal-minded Christians to rend their garments in outrage, believing Kate meant she wished to exchange places with the man upstairs. However, simply paying attention to the rest of the lyrics (i.e. putting the chorus in context) makes it crystal clear that the song is a monologue from one lover to another: she wants God to swap their places so each can experience the act of love from the other's perspective. Such a simple—and beautiful—idea, made even clearer by the song's defining lyric:

Let's exchange the experience.

A different aspect of love is explored in the title track: the fear of the unknown. Of course, Kate Bush being Kate Bush, the concept is couched in metaphor: fox-hunting*, being pursued through a forest by an unseen, unnamed force, and flinging shoes into a lake. Brilliantly, the titular canines are made reference to by an absolutely inspired "Ooh, ooh, ooh" refrain that sounds for all the world like a child's impersonation of a dog's bark. And despite animal impersonations, the almost overwhelming production, and a musical landscape that actually sounds celebratory, Kate's lyrics and her emotional vocal delivery make for one of her most naked, vulnerable performances.

In the three years since her previous album (1982's The Dreaming), Kate built a private 24-track studio near her home, and on "The Big Sky", you'll believe she was determined to use every last one of those tracks. The song is positively overflowing, total sonic saturation of a kind only approached by Type O Negative's similarly-produced October Rust. The song also proves that Kate was capable of beating all those spunky, high-energy women of 1980s pop-rock at their own game: after the self-doubt and fragility of the previous song she sounds ecstatic here, especially with a delightful little "Huh! Huh!" after we "pause for the jet" that I defy you to listen to without smiling. A truly fantastic, joyous, life-affirming song that probably contains the secret of eternal youth.

She might look human, but don't be fooled.
She's better than us. A higher life form.

The wild mood swings continue on the album's most subdued, even foreboding song. "Mother Stands for Comfort" is distinctly unsettling, and I still couldn't tell you 100% what it all means. Part of this is due to Kate's murmured, enigmatic vocal, but part is because a mystery is always more fun than the truth. The soundscape conjures up images of Joy Division at their most harrowing, with a stark, simple drum pattern laid over with eerie synth lines and the percussive sound of breaking glass. However, the elastic bassline and truly beautiful piano give off a very different vibe than that of the Mancunian miserablists: this is far looser than the robotic angst of Curtis and co.

One of Kate's most famous songs closes side one (the 'accessible' side), the crystalline "Cloudbusting". Inspired by psychologist Wilhelm Reich, the song manages the same sort of emotional syncopation as in "Hounds of Love", with an incredibly sad story told by way of an almost triumphant instrumental track. Propelled by an insistent, martial beat and an instantly memorable string motif, the different layers of sound build and build in a manner not dissimilar to industrial music: that 24-track studio proving a sound investment once again. Ponder how Kate Bush, a then-26 year old woman, could be so moved by the unfair treatment of an elderly man—who died before she was even born—that she could sound near tears as she sang this wonderful piece of music†.

And now we enter The Ninth Wave, a miniature concept album centred on, as Kate put it,

A person who is alone in the water for the night... their past, present and future coming to keep them awake, to stop them drowning.

Heady stuff for a 'pop record', this. It would be remiss of me to even attempt to describe this, as these seven songs simply must be heard in full. There's nothing else in music like it. All I will say is that "And Dream of Sheep" is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard, speedboat and all. That, and at the 1:19 mark "Waking the Witch" becomes probably the scariest thing Kate Bush ever committed to record, with a demonic, almost death metal voice bellowing intermittently, bewildering and disorienting multi-tracked snatches of conversations, arguments and so on, an instrumental track that seems to change every time you hear it... and somehow, a remarkably catchy song underneath it all. Continuing through somniloquy, Irish folk music and traditional Georgian chants(!), and concluding in probably the most optimistic-sounding song ever recorded, the entire suite is an incredible journey, and one you must take.

This, then, was Kate Bush in 1985. Mutual orgasms, lush synth arrangements, shoes in the lake. If The Dreaming was described by the woman herself as "my 'She's gone mad' album," then Hounds of Love is the album of a woman who's been given a clean bill of mental health. Well, half of it is, anyway. And the other half? She's taken over the asylum.

Brilliance.

* not spoken of in glowing terms, either
† empathy is a hell of a drug