Sparks, Mad!, review: eccentric brilliance with pearls of wisdom

Telegraph

23-05-2025

Since they first properly struck gold with 1974's piano-pounding art-glam romp, This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us, Ron and Russell Mael's 'band', Sparks (its personnel has long since consisted of just the two of them), has been an ever-present gold standard for left-field pop – perhaps the world's most successful cult act.
High points along the way have included 1979's Giorgio Moroder -produced New Wave/disco hit machine No.1 In Heaven and 1994's synth-pop primer Gratuitous Sax & Senseless Violins, but perhaps the most extraordinary twist in the tale of this fraternal odd couple from Los Angeles, ever beloved in the UK, is that, now well into their late 70s, their last three non-conceptual studio albums – Hippopotamus (2017), A Steady Drip, Drip, Drip (2020) and 0223's The Girl Is Crying In Her Latte (2023) – all by some remarkable coincidence hit Number Seven on the British charts.
They've remained furiously productive since the millennium, managing to squeeze in 2015's collaborative record with superfans Franz Ferdinand ('FFS'), a radio opera (2009's The Seduction Of Ingmar Bergman), a film musical (2021's Annette, which won them a César from Best Original Score), but this 28th studio album in their labyrinthine career surely delivers what most Sparks fans want from them most – a barrage of the kind of eccentric yet immediately connective synth-pop bangers, which only Chaplin-moustached keyboard maestro Ron Mael, now 79, seems capable of writing, and which Russell, 76, his sky-scraping high notes miraculously uneroded by passing time, delivers with characteristic theatrical gusto.
If Mael Sr majors in operatic pop ditties with laugh-out-loud librettos of interpersonal observation and pop-cultural referencing, Mad! is veritably bulging at the seams with them. It opens with the pulsing electro assertion of Do Things My Own Way, a new anthem, perhaps, for Sparks's pathological idiosyncrasy.
Further on, the glacially product-placing JanSport Backpack hilariously satirises our contemporary fixation with brand identity, often in preference over what's actually going on around us, or to us. More laughs beckon on Running Up A Tab At The Hotel For The Fab (oh, that craving to spend indiscriminately at a pricey boutique establishment!). Best of all, maybe, My Devotion offers a wonderfully goofy snapshot of unrequited love bordering on obsession: 'my devotion to you is all that I do,' gamely chirps Russell, over infectiously tootling synth lines, 'Got your name written on my shoe, and I'm thinkin' of getting' a tattoo!' He goes on, a tad creepily if he didn't sound so genuinely smitten: 'Through all the years/Rent in arrears/You never cared/Can't help but stare'!
More relationship insecurity surfaces on In Daylight, which serves up the wisdom, doubtless accrued beneath unforgiving LA sunshine, 'Everybody looks great at night/Ain't no trick to look great at night', before our narrator approaches a radiant apparition to deliver the ultimate LA compliment, 'You were impressive in day light, I saw you/Sunlight oppressive, but it's working for you', then succumbs to a dose of 'we are not worthy': 'I can't approach you since daylight reveals me/So I'll just wait for the night to conceal me'.
Like many of pop's greatest songsmiths, Ron Mael has a rare talent for writing lyrics which you instantly imagine applying or indeed singing in real-life conversations with fellow Mad! enthusiasts. Over circling psychodrama strings-synth, A Long Red Light, for example, brilliantly captures the stress of awaiting a change from those traffic signals which seem to be on a far more patient time-loop than all the others around town. I can just imagine singing this one to myself, the next time I'm stopped at a particular junction on my route back from Central London.
For all their lifelong weirdness, Sparks are always real enough to invade your daily reality, as all great pop does, in singalongs of collectively amusing phraseology, set to memorable melodies. As such, another Number Seven, or higher, surely awaits.
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