All music enthusiasts have their beloved anthems – songs that resonate deeply, becoming personal soundtracks to life’s journey. These cherished tunes, blending melody and lyrics, are often considered masterpieces. We admire songs for insightful lyrics, captivating melodies, masterful instrumentation, or simply their overall vibe. A singer’s unique delivery, an infectious beat, or a memorable guitar riff can instantly hook us. Upon first listen, we appreciate these songs as standalone art forms, much like a powerful poem or a striking sculpture. Over time, they become intertwined with our memories, capable of evoking potent emotions linked to past experiences, both joyful and sorrowful. These personal landmark songs are inseparable from our recollections of significant life events or even entire phases of our past. Songs heard during our formative years often embed themselves deeply within our personalities, almost defining who we become.
However, the musical landscape also includes songs we actively avoid – tunes that prompt a frantic dial change on the radio or a swift exit from a room. These are the songs that, for various reasons, we find utterly repulsive. For me, a significant portion of Phil Collins’ discography falls into this category – music as bland and purposeless as non-alcoholic beer. I also harbor a deep-seated aversion to the pretentious warblings of the English band Suede (a heartbreak involving a Suede fan in 1995 cemented that dislike, unfairly or not, against Brett Anderson and his bandmates).
Yet, towering above even these musical misgivings, reigning supreme at the very peak of my personal “Billboard of Hated Hits,” sits Chris de Burgh’s infamous “Lady in Red.”
For those fortunate enough to have remained blissfully unaware of Chris de Burgh, a brief introduction: He’s an Anglo-Irish singer-songwriter, born in 1948, who secured his first record deal in 1974. Beyond possessing a “golden voice” (note the heavy sarcasm!), he was also born into privilege. His upbringing was in a 12th-century Irish castle in County Wicklow. He was educated at the prestigious Marlborough College in Wiltshire, England, and later attended Trinity College in Dublin. His grandfather held the position of Chief of the General Staff in India during World War II, and De Burgh is a distant relative of Hubert de Burgh, a 13th-century English nobleman featured in Shakespeare’s play The Life and Death of King John. This is hardly your typical rock ‘n’ roll origin story.
Early in his career, De Burgh found considerable success in Ireland (a classic case of being a big fish in a small pond), as well as in parts of Europe and South America (the David Hasselhoff effect). He achieved modest success in the UK, but remained virtually unknown in the US. This all changed in 1986 when “Lady in Red,” with its saccharine sweetness and declarations of undying love, began to seep from radio speakers across the globe. Like a virulent epidemic, the cloying sentimentality and lukewarm sexuality (aka “smoochiness”) of “Lady in Red” spread from FM station to FM station, city to city, country to country. Almost overnight, a pandemic of bad taste was upon us. As with any outbreak, the most vulnerable were the hardest hit. Bubble-permed DJs, their minds weakened by the constant need to maintain an energetic and “butch” persona between songs, succumbed in droves. Yuppies, for whom “Lady in Red’s” over-produced synthesizers and processed guitars represented wealth and success, fell like flies. Those who bought only one record a year flocked to record stores worldwide, like lemmings to the sea. Stampedes ensued. Daily deliveries of fresh Chris de Burgh singles resembled Depression-era food riots, only with more baggy trousers, hairspray, and shoulder pads (it was the 80s, after all). June 1986 became a sort of “ground zero” for those of us with reasonable musical taste. Before, we could turn on the radio knowing that the worst we might encounter was Barry Manilow, Level 42, the Eagles, or, heaven forbid, Dire Straits. We could tolerate them. But now, armed with their newest and deadliest weapon, daytime radio was no longer safe. At any moment, you risked being ambushed by the opening pish, pish, pish of “Lady in Red’s” infernal electronic drums, and before you knew it, you’d involuntarily absorbed a few bars of De Burgh’s distinctive, grating whine.
“The Lady in Red” is offensive on multiple levels. The lyrics are simplistic and vapid in their portrayal of love. The music is utterly uninspired – plodding rather than romantically slow-danceable. The vocals are thin and reedy, with De Burgh possessing a voice that irritates and actively assaults certain cells in your inner ear. And the singer-songwriter himself projects an unappealing and unsympathetic public image. Let’s address the issue of Chris de Burgh’s persona first.
His immense popularity in 1980s Ireland made Chris de Burgh practically a national icon. He was ubiquitous – appearing on children’s TV, daytime radio, breakfast shows, late-night radio, chat shows, and society pages. The image he cultivated was one of humility and virtue personified. Trapped in a pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland with only two television channels, Chris de Burgh was inescapable. We were essentially forced to endure his constant pronouncements on spirituality, love, kindness, and his supposed ordinariness, despite his castle upbringing and family wealth. He consistently came across as sanctimonious, preachy, and excessively nice – Mr. Nice de Nice. “Nice,” for him, was more than just a word; it was a lifestyle. Material possessions meant nothing to him – only a higher power, humility, kindness, and love. And he clearly adored his wife (as evidenced by “The Lady in Red,” supposedly). While he could have been indulging in Mick Jagger-esque rock star behavior with adoring fans (prayers for their misguided souls), Chris was at home in his castle, composing songs about his unwavering love for his wife. And being nice. Therefore, news of his affair with his children’s nanny was met with considerable glee by those of us less enamored with his public image. We witnessed the swift and very public dimming of Mr. Nice’s halo. The irony was particularly delicious: while he was straying not far from home, his wife (the very “lady in red”) was hospitalized, recovering from a broken back. Not so nice after all. But, avoiding personal attacks, let’s move past Chris himself and focus on dismantling his musically malevolent creation.
The central theme of “Lady in Red” is uncomplicated: the narrator is overwhelmed by his wife’s exceptional beauty on a particular evening. Proud that she has chosen him from all others in the room (or perhaps the world), he professes unprecedented love and vows to forever remember her appearance. The lyrics are ripe for critical dissection, easily revealing their lack of depth and questionable underlying motivations. One interpretation is downright insulting to the “lady in red” herself. “Wow, you’ve cleaned up nicely!” De Burgh seems to imply. “I never realized a little makeup, some highlights, and a red dress could make you look so presentable.” Furthermore, is De Burgh suggesting his wife appears promiscuous when he sings, “I’ve never seen so many men ask you if you wanted to dance, they’re looking for a little romance, given half a chance?” Or worse, is he deriving some perverse, voyeuristic pleasure from observing his wife being propositioned by “so many men?” Is De Burgh the jealous type, seething in the corner while his wife socializes, misinterpreting innocent interactions as sexual advances? Could it be irrational (and possibly alcohol-fueled) jealousy that finally compels De Burgh to acknowledge his wife? Is Chris de Burgh suffering from a personality disorder where he’s only attracted to his wife when she’s the object of other men’s (perhaps multiple) attention? The lyrics contain further admissions that paint De Burgh in an unflattering light. He admits to not noticing her highlights, which, unless she had her hair done moments before the event, suggests significant inattentiveness. As he sings himself, “I have been blind.” Has Chris been neglecting his wife for months, even years? Has their marriage devolved into a charade, a toxic blend of forced politeness, passive-aggressive silence, and mutual avoidance? Has he been too preoccupied in his studio, crafting new ballads to inflict upon an unsuspecting public, to even acknowledge his wife’s existence? Or perhaps he’s been on tour, indulging in hedonistic excesses reminiscent of Led Zeppelin in their prime? Maybe “The Lady in Red” is less about “niceness” and more about guilt?
Sonically, “The Lady in Red” is definitively a product of its time – the 1980s, but not in a positive way. In the mid-80s, artists ranging from Prefab Sprout to New Order, the Cocteau Twins, Talk Talk, PiL, and Depeche Mode were pushing boundaries, creatively integrating new digital technologies – synthesizers, drum machines, basic samplers and sequencers – with traditional instruments to create unprecedentedly smooth, pure, and balanced sounds. Mainstream artists were quick to capitalize on this sonic landscape, diluting it into commercially palatable forms. Sometimes, this process yielded sublime pop music. I confess a fondness for Huey Lewis and the News’s string of mid-80s hits, and the decade would have been far less vibrant without Robert Palmer, Duran Duran, or a yuppie-suited and sounding David Bowie. However, more often than not, artists who rose to prominence in the 70s committed serious faux pas when attempting to modernize their sound. In terms of instrumentation and overall sonic texture, “The Lady in Red” is a monumental faux pas. It begins with electronic drums that, even in 1986, sounded like they were generated by a cheap Casio keyboard. The track is dominated by a cliché synth sound, likely achieved by simply pressing the “Smooch” button on a generic Korg synthesizer. The dampened, compressed electric guitar is textbook 80s, designed to stimulate the sluggish pulses of wine-bar Romeos and small-town disco Lotharios. The rhythm is so monotonous and basic that even a corpse could slow dance to it. It’s all lowest-common-denominator material, but, undeniably, it worked: “The Lady in Red” sold millions.
For a song that achieved such massive sales, its melody is remarkably clumsy. Count the number of times Chris repeats the same note in the opening lines of each verse. Monotonous! Imagine the embarrassment of buying the sheet music and trying to impress friends by playing it on the piano. You’d become a laughingstock, an enduring joke among your peers. They would forever recall the night your pinky finger relentlessly hammered that same note.
If we can agree that Chris de Burgh is no Burt Bacharach, we must question how he attained such widespread success and fame. If his personality is bland and his looks are, at best, unremarkable, could his voice be the key to his chart-topping career? Let me be blunt: Chris de Burgh is not a great singer. He can carry a tune, certainly, but his vocal abilities are nowhere near the level of a Sinatra, a Morrison, or an Ian McCulloch. De Burgh’s voice is a wavering, high-pitched whine, a mature voice lacking the mellow baritone one expects from a seasoned male vocalist. On “The Lady in Red,” it’s clear someone in the control room instructed Chris to deliver a “sensitive” performance. His vocal delivery is designed to offend no one – gentle, neutral, lifeless… practically embalmed. Perhaps that was the best “sensitive” Chris could manage. He only ventures beyond this vocal equivalent of a geriatric 100-meter sprint on a few occasions: the high note at the end of the second chorus – that ear-splitting, creaking, scratchy to-ni-ight; the song’s pinnacle of pure, unadulterated cheesiness – the whispered tonight as the song concludes; and then the genuinely chilling I love you at the very end. This final I love you is delivered with such calculated coldness and emotional emptiness that it reinforces the theory that “The Lady in Red” isn’t a heartfelt expression of renewed love for a wife suddenly seen in a new light. Instead, it feels like the poisonous output of a resentful, unhappy man, simmering with suppressed contempt and rage towards his partner. Consequently, those of us with our emotional and musical sensibilities attuned to the utter awfulness of this song can’t tolerate its corrupting stench. Our only recourse is to flee the room when those villainous opening electronic drums begin their pish, pish, pish assault.
