We need to talk about the ‘80s. 

Some amongst us, including this BOH operator, grew up during the Thatcher/Reagan years (also Mitterrand’s, for frogs), that, in retrospect, made for a bizarre, childish, yet momentous decade through which every miracle and curse the 21st century would unleash upon the world incubated, largely unbeknownst to the pre-internet hoi polloi. 

This was a time of extremely naive nihilism/optimist/despair all mashed together, and teens felt right at home (in all the good and bad ways) in those days where seemingly the entire developed world shared in the same state of tormenting titillation that was the lot of their recently ascended demographic. 

Adolescents, women, minorities of all stripes were on the rise, equally sought after, catered to, preyed upon, vaguely feared but also aped by the old boys clubs of then, who could smell something was off, yet proved comprehensively inept at questioning their own preconceptions or relinquish any of their hereditary privileges. Meanwhile, nukes loomed over our neon-spiked heads threatening atomic oblivion as we listened to self-important Rebellious™ songs, equally cheezy whether studiously broody or earnestly bright-eyed. 

If that sounds familiar to the youth of today, it’s because the 2020s look suspiciously like the 80s, to the point you oblivious naffs have exhumed dolmans and fanny packs, and think a K-Way windbreaker is a valid fashion statement …but I digress.  

Long story short, the USSR finally crumbled under the weight of its inadequacy, surprise-ending the Cold War and history (according to postmodernists) in the mother of all anticlimaxes, the neolibs then grabbed the scepter of pawah that had rolled under the conference table during the ensuing celebratory circle jerk of the old elites, and immediately used its magic to start marketing froyo and fast-fashion as the official religion of the new order. The end. 

Speaking of New Order… the ‘80s gave us terrible music on top of awful haircuts, and both prove equally enduring today through endless influence and revivals, a cultural equivalent of acne, plaguing in turn every new generation’s aesthetics. So we figured we’d pay homage to that glorious time when playing guitar poorly and singing off-tune was considered cool, as long as it came with lyrics of matching self-absorption, pomposity and heedlessness. 

Lead vocals are by Matt himself, because no decent singer could get it properly wrong just right, and we’d like to extend special thanks to Moona Luv for being game and playing a perfect fangirl on cough syrup for backing vocals. 

Thus, we unabashedly give you Smoke Meshine, an exercise in ill-advised post-punk beat poetry Morrissey and Bono could be proud of — we had a bloody good time making it, and hope it’ll make the oldest among you smile in mildly embarrassed nostalgia. 

ttfn, 

        Yaka ＆ Matt.