![]() Tovey, much like the soothsayer of Julius Caesar, warned of the dangers of late capitalism with his bitterly anti-commercial, vulnerable lyrics. With that in mind, it is time to exhume Frank Tovey’s time capsule of the writhing, rotten underbelly of the Reagan/Thatcher era we’ve blithely chosen to forget. The deluge of nihilistic reboots is played out so heavily now, one wonders if innovation is still allowed, or if we’re just going to settle for pacifying our anxiety-riddled selves until the bitter end. To modern sensibility, the 1980s seem as much of a gentle utopia now as the 1960s did when The Wonder Years premiered in 1988. Humanity loves believing in a simpler past. As we greedily lap up salacious headlines and news clips on our phones, we collectively wonder if anything is changing for the better. Quarantine, the rise of fascism, and the relentless news cycle has everyone caught in a hellish loop of anxious doomscrolling.
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