It’s easily M83’s most challenging, best album to date.
With Junk, Anthony Gonzalez challenges the expectations of the devotees of past M83 projects, guiding them to embellished fabrications of the follies of pop's past. After some period of acclimation, they might find the surfaces and textures of satin, glitter, and pink bubbles to be quite accommodating.
Once Gonzalez has had his fun and begins to settle in to the ways of the old M83, but with a bit of a pop sheen to it, is when Junk works best. It’s just a shame you have to flick through the channels to find the gold.
With Junk, Gonzalez has taken M83 into a whole new galaxy that is just as ambitious and starry-eyed as everything that came before it.
Junk is disposable pop music, and it really doesn’t aspire to be much more than that.
It is in Anthony Gonzalez’ veins to make pop music where the listener will swoon, dream and ultimately smile. Despite the mournful lag in the middle of JUNK, that is what he does once again here – in his own inimitable way.
This kind of pure homage to slick '70s and'’80s FM ephemera is so exacting in places, it almost makes you wonder: What is the point of remaking this into something new?
Junk, unfortunately, lives up to the reason Gonzalez gave it its name; two songs that are highlights while the rest can be trashed, although it's not all that bad. It's a superficial thrill ride but without those evocative moments, that captivating emotional core, it lacks staying power.
It's an admirable effort to not simply repeat a successful album, but Junk is more often pastiche than absorption or reconfiguration of '80s nostalgia.
Junk sounds dated and not in a good way. It’s the songs that don’t go into total throwback mode that appeal the most.
On a base, per-song level, Junk is a sturdy little workhorse of an album.
Junk only seems to exacerbate the recycling of pop tropes that Gonzalez rails against, an emulation rather than a celebration. In this context, Junk is a deeply cynical record.
Junk seemingly represents the band’s version of Metal Machine Music and Trans, the leap into Brechtian theatrics sounds and feels ironic. Except, it is not.
‘Junk’ is a goofy supply of cheesy saxophone solos, equally silly synth lines and the Sad Robot aesthetic defining Daft Punk’s ‘Random Access Memories’.
As its title implies, Junk leans too heavily on the quirks from the past, rife with the least flattering odds and ends of a time long gone. If this record is supposed to evoke the hot shame of retroactive embarrassment – akin to gazing at your pizza-faced high school glamour shots – it passes with flying colors.
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