The most striking thing about the Buzzcocks – at the time of their first releases in the late 70s as well as today – is the way they could blend pink love-song emotion with the ‘virility’ of punky volume and speed, and make it work so well.

Another Music is the second punk album I owned after The Ramones’ Rocket To Russia, and back then I thought that punk was only about telling the Queen to fuck off and shouting about Colchester council being full of shit, and that there was no room for actual feelings and that bollocks. And here is the bi-sexual frontman Pete Shelley, spewing out genderless love songs at a sickly pace; it’s all about non-conformity, and as one of the first punk albums to come out in the UK in 1978, Another Music breaks a lot of rules for the first time. Don’t underestimate the importance of the Buzzcocks.

Whether it’s a pun or not, I’m gonna say the theme of this album is a kind of kitchen-sink romance, full of realness, eagerness, disappointments and frustration instead of the rich magical world presented to us in pop culture. In tracks like No Reply and Love Battery, the sudden blasts of pace along with the quick, chortling electric riffs feel fiery and frantic, while Pete Shelley’s vital vocal spells out the sad romance

no reply oh can’t you see no reply it’s ruining me

and self-indulges in Get On Our Own – his long, animalistic yell exhibiting all the displeasure in the world. Makes me feel good about my love life…

As well as its disco-punk hits, Another Music showcases bluer tones in tracks like You Tear Me Up: its melancholy incline and fall is as steady and solid as the D-beat (B-beat?) running throughout, as Shelley rants on his venom. Autonomy‘s my favourite of the album, mostly because of its compelling languidness, despite its pace. The way in which the electric guitar strolls in, studded by the steady bass, amongst John Maher’s brilliant drumming brings a smooth sense of able ease – and in the last minute of the track, Maher’s stream of cymbal ticks and snare rolls stretches, twists and turns alongside the guitar solo, like the narrative to a story.                  I want youuuuu, on top of me (har har har)

The five-and-a-half-minute Moving Away From The Pulsebeat carries the same kind of trajectory, with tribal toms and snares reverberating throughout and electric guitars soaring – the more you listen to it, the more you hear in it.

In some cases, namely in tracks I Need and Sixteen, the Buzzcocks’ poignant punk/sentiment antithesis strikes more unsettling than anything else. With its lyrics joyless and despondent, I Need‘s blood-sugar rush of pace channels this hot, pubescent frenetecism that feels honest and desperate, yet the power of the snare rattling and that fat fucking bass solo pulls the track into equilibrium. Sixteen‘s chirpy, Sergeant Major snare march along with Shelley’s staccato singing feels Crass-esque (both bands’ debuts were released at similar times so I’ll leave that one up to you), but the sad twist of nostalgia running through the lyrics declares itself in a stark, Damned-style descent into disturbing chaos towards the end of the track.

The Buzzcocks are subtle and clever so there’s a lot more to their music than what we hear – which is what I’ve tried to communicate in this review, compared to the more, well… matter-of-fact sounding albums, which I tend to adorn with phrases such as “and that riff is so fucking hard I almost pissed my pants when I first heard it”. I love them all the same, but I don’t think I’ve written something like this before. I did try to make it sound less poncey but after all, I am just a cunty, (almost) English university student who reads classic literature at home before going out and getting kicked out of clubs.