Most people’s first foray into Demon Days was “Feel Good Inc.,” the smash hit and best song to ever have Albarn’s name attached to it. It’s an idiosyncrasy made manifest, something that uses sounds from every possible corner of the musical world and blends them together, in turn sounding almost entirely its own.
It’s a dark, apocalyptic album that brims with energy and funk, a pop music oxymoron in every fiber of its being. It’s as dense as a 50-minute album can be, packed with hit after hit, feature after feature, and changes in musical style so fast that it can give you whiplash if you’re not prepared for it. But more importantly as an experiment in collaboration the likes of which we haven’t really seen since.
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More than the TV bumpers, more than the holographic performances at every awards show you can think of, more than even the ubiquitous reverence that the band has for a certain demographic (namely, those of us who grew up in the 2000s), it’s Demon Days that truly proves the power of Gorillaz. Gorillaz’ sophomore album, released in 2005, remains the true monument of their existence. Perhaps a masterful concept, but not yet a masterpiece. It was fascinating to many, but still seemed like a side project to those in the know. Either way, the success of the project was explosive but not necessarily nuclear. On the other hand, that initial success might have simply been thanks to the futuristic trip-hop stylings of Dan the Automator, Kid Koala, and Del the Funky Homosapien finally hitting the mainstream through the single “Clint Eastwood,” the song that any white kid between the ages of 20 and 27 can rap to you in full. The idea of a digital band at the turn of the century, one that featured musicians from England (satanic British bassist Murdoc, empty-eyed lead singer 2D), New York (hip-hop savant Russel), and Japan (philosophical teen girl Noodle) seemed like exactly the type of thing that the new millennium should be ushering in.
At first, it might have been the novelty of it all. Despite Hewlett’s eccentric reputation and Albarn’s pretentious mythos, maybe – just maybe – they actually knew what they were doing.īecause – as anyone who listened to the radio or watched Cartoon Network or saw any music awards show or went to any school dance in the mid-2000s knows – Gorillaz did what they set out to do. Or maybe Albarn and Hewlett actually tapped into a vein that they might have not even been looking for. For many music critics at the time, this seemed to be the inevitable course for Gorillaz.īut maybe the world turned just slightly off its axis one day. It could have remained a cult classic, like Hewlett’s other pieces. It could have been just another notch in what would be a near endless line of Albarn’s fun but frivolous side work. And, for that reason, it would have been easy to predict that the whole thing would never even be of consequence. The answer to all of these at the time seemed to be little more than a shrug and an “I dunno.” There was great concept behind Albarn’s and Hewlett’s pet project, but not much direction. How would a cartoon band fronted by Damon Albarn – the most famous British musician of the ‘90s – possibly be able to step outside of his shadow? How would the band make a statement on celebrity and consumerism? Just by existing? If they could make a statement, what would that statement even be?
When someone in the distant future digs up the ancient artifacts that detail the history of Gorillaz, here’s where their questions will come in. They would create a cartoon band, one that would let them explore the outer limits of their crafts (pop music and visual art, respectively) while holding up a mirror to the caricatures that pervaded mainstream music. In 1998 collaborators and roommates Damon Albarn (of Blur fame) and Jamie Hewlett (of Tank Girl semi-fame) hatched a half-baked idea to make a statement about the lack of substance in the pop music they saw on MTV.
There’s a world where Gorillaz never mattered.
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