In 1984, if you are ten years old and your tape collection consists of “Thriller,” Men at Work’s “Business as Usual” and Juice Newton’s “Juice,” you don’t know the rules of musical taste-building. In fact — and especially if you’ve been deprived of an older sibling — you’re not even aware that there are rules. You don’t read Rolling Stone — you have zero idea who Jann Wenner is. “Greil Marcus” and “Robert Christgau” sound like a foreign language to your ears. But gradually, awkwardly, you figure things out on your own. You learn about The Beatles and The Stones. You pretend to get Dylan. You trade your Pop inclinations for Classic Rock. You sing along to Queen and Styx before you realize that they might not be cool. And, finally, a bunch of years later, you figure out that Greatest Hits compilations are absolutely not objects to be proud of.

Greatest Hits packages serve multiple purposes. They are cash grabs. They are career defining summations. But, in the Eighties, for pre-teens like me, they were also — mostly — handy surveys of the music that Boomer parents deemed important. Part cultural indoctrination and part Cliff Notes, Greatest Hits cassettes were both critical taste markers and cheap reductions of an artist's oeuvre. I didn’t understand this at first, but it did not take long for me to figure out that real students — real fans with real taste — did the work. They pored over artists’ entire discography. They loved the deeper cuts as much as (probably more than) the greatest hits. Greatest Hits were for kids — for suckers. The canon was for adults.

That being said, in the same way that you have to walk before you run and add before you multiply, it was widely understood that Greatest Hits compilations were an essential part of human development. So, while they were not appreciated by the cognoscenti, they were tolerated by everyone else — but only inasmuch as there was a clear hierarchy.

At the very top of this pecking order was, of course, The Beatles, who had a two part, two color (Red and Blue), chronologically organized compilations. Just beneath them were The Stones, who had two editions of “Hot Rocks,” and Dylan, who had two Greatest Hits collections. It was well understood that, while you perhaps legally had to own these to become a full-fledged young adult, you also had to pretend either that you did not own them or that you were much more interested in their proper albums — their actual masterpieces (and even their lesser, but still seminal, albums).

Now, beneath that kingdom of heaven was a crowded Mount Rushmore of not-to-be-debated legends, all of whom had their own Greatest Hits collections. This group included The Who, Bowie, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Kinks, Eric Clapton and Cream. Obviously, Led Zeppelin would fully qualify for this tier. In fact, they probably would have been knocking at the higher, more ethereal echelon. But, alas, they waited decades before they reduced their career to twenty-three songs.

One rung down were the first ballot hall of farmers, each of whom had many hits and most of whom had at least one great album but perhaps not an undeniable masterpiece. This group actually consisted of two factions — the softer rockers and the harder ones. The former includes Billy Joel, CSN(Y), James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel, Elton John, probably The Dead, obviously The Eagles and, because he doesn’t fit elsewhere, Bob Marley. The latter includes Queen, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, The Allman Brothers and The Doors. Forgive me if I’ve omitted anyone.

Then, finally, there was the bottom of the pyramid — bands who were actually well served by Greatest Hits comps. These were occasionally amazing artists — proven hitmakers — who struggled to sustain their greatness over two sides of an LP but who had at least five unforgettable tracks and probably another five which justified the $7.99 investment at Sam Goody. This class featured bands like Foreigner, The Doobie Brothers, Aerosmith, ELO, Bad Company, Deep Purple and a bunch of other extremely famous, slightly overrated bands who were more popular than they were generationally important.

Taken together, you’re talking about a lot of tapes. Dozens of them. And odds were that just under that bottom pile was one more random comp that neither looked nor sounded like the rest of them. It was an outlier from a band who was not especially popular in the U.S. and who never even achieved superstardom in their homeland. Its cover — with two toned fonts and a cartoon sketch of a drunk — suggested roots in the New Wave and deeper roots back in the pub. Its liner notes confirmed that every one of its twelve tracks was released between 1977 and 1982 (a relatively short window for a Greatest Hits album).

Back then, I did not know much, but I knew enough. So, before I pressed play on that bottom of the heap tape in 1984 — before I heard even a single note, I knew that these men were not legends. I deduced that they were likely a short lived U.K. cult band, miles away from Bad Company and light years from The Beatles. But, there it was — a Greatest Hits tape — which implied both quality (greatest) and popularity (hits). Also, there was that name — Squeeze. It sounded familiar and possibly important. And so, as I had done before with countless other Greatest Hits tapes, I dutifully pressed play, expecting not much but hoping for something. And then. What. The. Absolute. Fuck!? For the next forty-four minutes, from “Take Me I’m Yours” through “Annie Get Your Gun,” I wondered if Squeeze was the best band to have ever existed.

While I was too young to place the references, in retrospect I was hearing a band hop from Elvis Costello and the Attractions to The Jam to Cheap Trick to The Damned and maybe to a little New Order and some Rockpile and Blondie. It was all in there — the seeds and the buds of New Wave. Punk. Pub Rock. English Soul. One singer had a silky tenor, higher than McCartney’s, but similarly smooth. The other singer used more of a talky baritone, like Ian Dury. The melodies were in the vein of The Beatles but their words were closer to The Kinks. More than sounding “great,” and unlike the other bands in my Greatest Hits pile, Squeeze sounded positively “cool.”

On the basis of “Take Me I’m Yours” (more fun than early Depeche Mode but still something I could privately dance to), and “Another Nail in My Heart” (less vicious than Elvis Costello and less jazzy than Joe Jackson), and “Pulling Mussels (From The Shell)” (the words made me feel smart and the melody had all these wonderfully tight corners), but mostly on account of “Tempted” (more soulful than the rest but still a perfect New Wave singalong), I rushed out to the record store — two twenty dollar bills in hand — desperate to catch up on the rest of Squeeze. As sure as I was of anything at the age of ten, I was sure that Squeeze were among the all time greats. I was positively convinced that the adult world had erred in its hierarchy and that “Singles – 45's and Under” had been dropped near my boombox so that I could personally rectify the situation. How could the band that made “Tempted” be buried in a pile of tapes, far below Lynyrd Skynyrd?

The long answer, it turned out, was complicated. But the short version, which actually took me years to figure out, is that while Squeeze was great, they were not as great as their Greatest Hits suggested. I tried. I really did. I bought all of their first five albums, from “Squeeze” through “Sweets From a Stranger.” I gave them time and returned to them as a teen. And then again as a young adult. And, finally, as a fully grown up man. But every time I came back to those albums — of which “Argybargy” and “East Side Cats” are frequently cited as their best — I came to the same conclusion: Squeeze’s best album, by far, is their Greatest Hits compilation, “Singles – 45's and Under.”

There are many reasons for this. In defense of Squeeze, every song from their first (and best) compilation was released within a five year burst of creativity, meaning that the album is more cogent than most career spanning documents. It presents as much like an “album,” made all at once, as anything in their eclectic discography. Conversely, Squeeze never made a ”Blonde on Blonde” or “Exile on Main Street.” In fact, I’m not sure if they ever made “John Wesley Harding” or “Goats Head Soup.” Every Squeeze album suffers from inconsistency. Their highs are revelations. And while their lows are never embarrassments, they can sound ho-hum by comparison.

Additionally, there is a frictionless quality to Glenn Tilbrook’s singing that makes it easy to ignore. His voice is pure melody, affecting your ears much more than your hips, heart, ass or pelvis. Chris Difford’s words — astute, clever and sharply tailored — certainly elevate the music, but they also (and to their literary credit) still somehow roll off Tilbrook’s tongue a little too easily.

In contrast, the very best Squeeze songs — the ones that you cannot ignore — are the ones that challenge Tilbrook’s melodic gift, either by pairing him with DIfford, replacing him with Paul Carrack, or using Jools Holland’s keyboard to shake you up. Without those tensions, Squeeze songs can engender a “that was pleasant and well made but…” sort of response. As right as their Greatest Hits are, everything else they made is just slightly less right.

If tension was the band’s best feature, it was also their existential bug. It is incredibly hard to balance effective tension with effortless melody. But it’s harder still to manage tension within a band when it’s the defining aspect of its co-founders. Glenn Tilbrook, the lead singer, guitarist and songwriter, and Chris Difford, the other singer, guitarist and lyric writer, were childhood mates whose affection and admiration for each other was matched only by the friction and disdain they inspired in one another.

Though early on they were compared to Lennon and McCartney, Tilbrook and Difford were much closer to Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Tilbrook was the master tunesmith and Difford was the equally gifted wordsmith. For the most part (and unlike Lennon/McCartney) they worked separately, fitting and refitting their parts for the others’ material. Tilbrook was the more gregarious and intuitive of the two. Difford, meanwhile, was more contained and cerebral — some (including Tilbrook) might even describe him as standoffish. Tilbrook leaned towards The Beatles. Difford towards Post-Punk. One man was blonde. The other brunette. They were childhood classmates, but, from the outset, and in spite of their common interests, they were also a study in contrasts.

Partnerships are hard — in business, in life and in music (which is a combination of the first two). When they succeed, as it did for three quarters of an hour on “Singles – 45's and Under,” they can be magical. And, for the most part, even when it did not succeed, Tilbrook and Difford produced extremely well made, eminently likable music. But, when it failed — when it buckled and fractured — Squeeze broke up. First, in 1982, when the decision was necessary, but temporary. Then again, in 1998, when Difford left Tilbrook and the band in the middle of a tour without much explanation (soon thereafter, he entered rehab). That second one cut quite deeply.

During Squeeze’s first hiatus, Tilbrook and Difford made an album together, under their own names. And while they never fully discovered the magic of their early New-Wave-Power-Pop-Post-Punk-Pub-Rock-English-Soul, they reunited even scored a couple of hits in 1987 on “Babylon and On.” By the end of the century, however, Jools Holland was gone, the hits dried up and Difford bottomed out. From the outside, it seemed certain that Squeeze was done. From the inside, it appeared even worse.

Both Tilbrook and Difford released a series of much lower profile solo records after Squeeze’s second, much longer, break. In 2004, VH1 tried — and almost succeeded — to reunite the band’s “classic line-up” for a one night only show. But Holland demurred and, after originally signing on, Tilbrook did the same. By that time Tilbrook-Difford relations had thawed — the latter was sober and regretful — but neither seemed ready for the higher ground or the higher stakes. It would be another three years before the duo would bury the hatchets, pick up their guitars and play together on stage again. And it would be another eight years after that — close to two decades since the end of their second marriage —before Squeeze would record an album of new music.

That new music began with a series of victory laps disguised as concerts, some lifetime achievement awards, a few line-up adjustments, an album wherein they dutifully recreated their old hits, and the release of “Essential Squeeze” — which was really just “Singles – 45's and Under” plus a couple mid-80s semi-hits tacked on. But then, in 2014, Tillbrook and Difford agreed to write the theme song for the soundtrack to a new BBC series. That show and its jingle, both entitled “Cradle to the Grave,” were based on the autobiography of writer/journalist, Danny Baker and situated in mid-Seventies South London. With Difford sober and contrite, Tilbrook open and magnanimous, the creative brief (Seventies nostalgia) clear, and the stakes lowered, it was time for Squeeze to make new music again.

“Cradle to Grave” is an undeniably pretty album. And equally competent. It has all of the trademarks that defined Tilbrook and Difford’s music — a sweet, high tenor, perfectly intact. Effortless melodies. Short stories with characters, conflicts and motivations thoughtfully sketched out. Some nifty arrangements. And nary a wild swing and miss. It’s not not ambitious. There are string arrangements and pedal steel and a veritable gospel choir. But, as with most of their lesser recordings, it’s music devoid of tension, soul, sexuality, danger and the other qualities that separate Rodgers & Hammerstein from Lennon & McCartney.

I cannot describe what South London, 1973 sounded like — I was born in New York, one year later. But, in my mind it was more Glam (Bowie, Bolan), sad Pop (Tony Orlando, Donny Osmond), and plaintive Rock (Wings, Elton John) than the tasteful watercolors that comprise Squeeze’s fourteenth studio album. To my untrained ears, Tilbrook (and Difford) could be singing about the late Seventies or late Sixties or early Eighties, or mid-Fifties for that matter. Their return is conceptually and sonically consistent — to the point of being precise. It’s a series of coming of age reflections from somewhere near London. The ideas don’t stray. The place seems specific enough. But everything else is awash in genial melodies, gospel harmonies and literary musings, none of which are enough to distract from a complete lack of luster.

There are, of course, moments. The opener is an ebullient hand-clapper about the passage of time, rendered with the clarity of Tilbrook’s wonderful instrument and Difford’s prosaic flair. And though the singer’s voice is lacking in grit, the backing choir effectively signifies something “church like” if not “soulful.” If the song was played during the closing credits of “Sister Act II,” I’d stand and applaud. But, as somebody praying for the next “Take Me I’m Yours,” I can only smile and casually admire.

While the string arrangements and gospel singers are clearly their attempt to emulate Seventies Soul music, past prime Squeeze ends up sounding like high end, less funky Jamiroquai. Honestly, that’s not all bad. Far from it. There are many things worse than smooth, soul-esque Pop with a gifted singer and clever quartets. For example, “Nirvana” balances that tonal lightness with a heavy story about a couple with big dreams which never came true because, well, they were just that — dreams. “Open” has similar vibes, except reimagined through the lens of a couples skate at the old roller rink. And “Honeytrap” finds the fifth gear, speeding up the jangle, dropping in a surprisingly effective harmonica solo, and letting Chris sing harmony with his more melodic partner. Though it’s looking back in the rear view mirror at that girl way back when, it’s still the most modern thing on the album.

The lesser moments from “Cradle to the Grave” don’t suffer from any lack of craft so much as from sameness. “Beautiful Game” and “Happy Days” are both languid reflections on childhood days spent outdoors. You can almost hear the Super 8 camera rolling behind the mid-tempo of the former, while the latter is distinguished exclusively by the addition of more strings and a dulcimer. Later on, “Sunny” continues the memories at sunset vibes. It’s similarly unhurried and mostly charming, just without an electric guitar or drums. Somewhere in its melody, you can hear faint traces of “Tempted.” But, the rest of early Squeeze is gone. it’s nowhere near Pub Rock or New Wave, much less Punk Rock.

“Snap, Crackle and Pop” closes the album with graceful Bacharach-esque verses, followed by a rousing chorus that rewards all the waiting and remembering. On an album of twelve songs (sixteen if you count the bonus tracks) it’s the only one that has blood pumping through its veins. It’s the one song wherein you can hear all of Squeeze’s forebears but also where you are also reminded just how narrow their own influence ultimately was.

That honeyed tenor. Those grad school lyrics. As wonderful as they could be, they never had a platinum album. Never had a number one hit — not even in the U.K. They were different. They were special. Yes. But, they did not spawn a sea of imitators. Decades later, their scent is hard to detect. They’re not classically New Wave. They’re certainly not Post-Punk. And they are different from their closest peers — Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe and Graham Parker — in that they are a band. The two bands that are perhaps their closest descendants would be The Shins and The New Pornographers. I love both artists. But their distinctness and their Indie-ness confirms the obvious: Squeeze’s sound was both hard to recreate and not for everyone.

Squeeze is rarely discussed in the way that their more famous, if (forgive me) musically lesser, contemporaries are. The Cars and Blondie are both in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But, as much as I like those bands, if you take their twelve best songs and play them next to “Singles – 45's and Under,” it’s very clear whose Greatest Hits are actually the greatest. Thirty years after I told my mom to either give away or chuck out my old cassettes, I still proudly hold onto Squeeze’s first compilation. It’s the greatest of Greatest Hits. It’s exactly why the form exists.

by Matty Wishnow