An artist you should have known
The first bars of Bad News have a strangely magnetic quality. Sharp, clipped guitar strokes that sound like they’ve been cut right from the asphalt of a dimly lit avenue run under a pulsating bassline. Moon Martin sings like he’s resting against a midnight restaurant jukebox, staring intently at the reflection of taillights. His voice has the kind of cool that only smolders and not shouts. The arrangement is simple, but there is just enough conflict between melody and rhythm to start a gentle fire.
With the TV muted, Moon Martin resembled a man who wrote songs at 3 a. m. He was composing hits for others, like Cadillac Walk for Mink DeVille, long before Bad News began playing on French radio waves. Keeping his trench coat buttoned, he allowed the music speak for itself as he finally stepped into the spotlight himself. Though he came from Oklahoma, his songs sounded like they were wired into late-night Paris or the back alleys of L. A. Bad News, published in 1980, ran through transistor radios like a stolen car through fog.
The track doesn’t pursue great drama. It slides. The rhythm section plays it like they’ve heard too many lies and know better than to rush. Like neon signs half-working, synths flicker; the guitar solo ducks in with just the right amount of bitterness. flat and final, Martin says the title phrase like someone reading it off a telegram. He doesn’t yell or beg. He shrugs, lights another cigarette, and observes the girl vanishes.
One of the most original new voices in pop-rock, blending infectious melodies with a quirky lyrical style.
(Billboard, 1980)
Bad News arrived during a period when pop music was split between new wave’s sharp angles and disco leftovers. Unaffiliated, Martin stood in the center and offered clean hooks with a knowing grin. French spectators understood it quickly. With Bad News quickly becoming a quiet anthem for individuals who felt more comfortable behind sunglasses, he discovered cult notoriety here more rapidly than he did back home. It was performed in clubs, in vehicles, on cassette decks that invariably required a pencil to rewind.
This song conceals a full city. It passes couples not talking, glances of something lost in the mirror of a shop window, and walks past blue-lit motels. Moon Martin never pushed to the front of the pack. He left fingerprints instead. Bad news hangs about since it doesn’t try to be heard. It just stays cool, keeps walking, and never looks back.
