Who sang boy in the 80s?
Ah, the eternal question that haunts karaoke bars and retro Spotify playlists: *Who, exactly, was belting out an ode to “boy” in the 80s?* Was it a lost track about a missing Tamagotchi? A ballad for a guy named Steve who borrowed someone’s Walkman and never returned it? Let’s dive into the neon-lit rabbit hole.
Suspects with synthesizers and hairspray
The 80s were a golden age of lyrical ambiguity, so narrowing this down is like finding a crimped hairpin in a mosh pit. Here’s the lineup:
- The Cure gave us “Boys Don’t Cry” (1979, but let’s pretend it’s 80s adjacent), a bop that’s less about *singing* “boy” and more about telling him to hydrate and process emotions. Revolutionary.
- Loverboy—yes, the band name is a flex—released “Working for the Weekend” (1981), where they casually mention “everybody wants a little boy.” Context? Unclear. Capitalism? Probably.
- Madonna dropped “Material Girl” (1985), crooning, “boys may come and boys may go.” A prophetic warning about dating apps, disguised as a pop anthem.
The case of the phantom “boy”
If you’re screaming, “BUT WHO SANG *THE WORD* ‘BOY’ IN A SONG TITLE?!”, hold your jelly bracelets. The closest contender is Book of Love’s synth-pop oddity “Boy” (1986). It’s a surreal, drum-machine-heavy tribute to… uh… a dude? A concept? A sentient tube of lip gloss? The 80s were weird, folks.
Honorable mention: Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” (1984)—because pluralizing “boy” somehow makes it a wholesome classic about nostalgia, tan lines, and emotional baggage. You’re welcome.
Who else sang the book of love?
The Magnetic Fields’ meta-melancholy mixtape
Move over, doo-wop dinosaurs—The Magnetic Fields decided the “Book of Love” needed a synth-pop existential crisis. Their 1999 version swaps old-school romance for dry humor and deadpan delivery, as if the lead singer found the titular book buried under a pile of tax returns. It’s less “let’s hold hands” and more “let’s dissect why holding hands is statistically likely to end in tears.” Bonus points for including lyrics about *stale marshmallows* and *songs that make you cry*. Because nothing says “love” like snacks gone rogue.
Peter Gabriel’s orchestral fanfiction
In 2010, Peter Gabriel hijacked the “Book of Love,” stuffed it with a 54-piece orchestra, and whispered it into a microphone like a cosmic lullaby. His cover is what happens when you give a prog-rock legend a time machine and a thesaurus. Dramatic? Yes. Over-the-top? Obviously. Does it include a chorus of ghostly back-up singers? *You bet*. It’s the musical equivalent of writing “Romeo & Juliet” in calligraphy while riding a unicycle. And honestly, we’re here for it.
That one garage band your cousin won’t shut up about
Who else belted this tune? Oh, just every indie artist with a ukulele and a broken heart. Dive into YouTube’s abyss, and you’ll find:
- A dog howling along (4.7 million views, 3 stars on Yelp).
- A guy in a dinosaur costume crooning it at a subway station (allegedly).
- An AI-generated Kermit the Frog cover that’s weirdly moving (don’t ask).
The “Book of Love” is like a thrift store sweater—everyone tries it on, but it never fits the same way twice. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to teach our toaster to sing verse two.
Is the book of love new wave?
Let’s crack open this metaphysical mixtape and see if “The Book of Love” belongs in the new wave canon or if it’s just a synth-pop imposter wearing oversized sunglasses. Spoiler: It’s less Depeche Mode and more Depeche Melancholy. The Magnetic Fields’ 1999 cult classic feels like a love letter scribbled on a floppy disk—nostalgic, quirky, and just detached enough to make you wonder if it’s secretly time-traveling from 1983. But does that qualify it as new wave? Or is it simply a sad robot’s karaoke cover of the genre?
New wave or new grave? Let’s dissect the evidence
- Synth-check: Yes, there are synths. But new wave synths usually scream “dance floor!” These synths whisper, “I left my heart in a thrift store.”
- Lyrical vibes: New wave lyrics often involve existential panic disguised as a party. “The Book of Love” is more like existential panic disguised as a wedding vow.
- Fashion verdict: New wave = neon spiked hair. This song = a turtleneck sweater sighing in a dimly lit bookstore.
Stephin Merritt, the mastermind behind the track, once described it as “the least ironic song ever written,” which immediately disqualifies it from 80% of new wave’s trademark smirk. Imagine if The Cure tried to write a Hallmark card but got stuck in a library with a thesaurus and a broken drum machine. That’s the vibe. It’s earnest, poetic, and vaguely haunted—like a new wave ghost who forgot to be edgy.
So, is it new wave? Maybe in the same way a disco ball made of tears is still technically a disco ball. The song borrows the genre’s synth-heavy skeleton but dresses it in a cardigan of existential yearning. Call it “new wave-adjacent” or “post-wave melancholia,” but let’s agree on one thing: if this book ever hits the shelves, it’s filed under “romance novels for androids.” Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be over here arguing whether accordions are the new keytars.
