Though he rarely actually wrote about the subject literally, there is no novelist who conveyed the struggle of psychotherapy as well as Philip Roth. In popular music, no band has conveyed the practice of analysis so well as Tears for Fears. They are the Philip Roth of New Wave. Famously named in reference to the primal therapy that John Lennon practiced following the breakup of The Beatles, Tears for Fears are, in form and function, the musical equivalent of intense psychoanalysis. There is ego and id. There is angst. There are uncoded symbols. There are frequent revelations. There is repression. Some days it can feel like the most important part of life. Occasionally there are breakthroughs. But most days, it just feels like hard work. Appropriately, the same can be said about the band that Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith formed in 1981.

In 1985, when “Shout” arrived stateside, none of this thesis was apparent. In spite of its seismic success, that single was conveniently likened to the Pop of Duran Duran and The Eurythmics, or dismissively compared to flash in the pans like Flock of Seagulls and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Their following singles, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” and “Head Over Heels,” however, challenged these notions. Soon enough, Americans began to realize something that the English had already learned: Tears for Fears were different. They were more complicated, more perfectionist and (possibly) more talented than their cohort. They had heady lyrical notions and complex, to the point of being Baroque, musical ideas.

Between “Shout” and “Seeds of Love,” Tears for Fears were among the biggest Pop bands in the world. Their hits married a yearning blue-eyed Soul with massive, textured walls of instruments -- electric, acoustic and synthesized. You could hear both of the singer-songwriters’ voices in conversation. You could sense their ideas competing and aligning. The songs would suddenly and breathlessly shift shape and meter. Their hits were undeniably anthemic, but highly varied. The distance between “Seeds of Love” and “Mad World” is vast, though the through lines if you listen for them. Throughout, there are yearning souls and Beatles-esque turns. The deeper cuts, however, are where you can hear Orzabal and Smith working through the therapy. Lesser known songs like “The Big Chair” and “The Working Hour,” from their mid-80s prime, are pristine Pop ideas obsessively tested, poked and prodded. They were the rarest of Pop groups — accessible and cogent on the surface but dense and broken within.

In every Tears for Fears song, you can feel that there is deeply personal shit being worked on. Ultimately, and in spite of their massive success, their talent was frequently overmatched by intellectualism. Every note and chord sounds pored over. It can feel not unlike two men in couples therapy, sometimes speaking in unison, sometimes speaking to each other and sometimes speaking around each other. You can hear the work in the songwriting. But, increasingly, that therapy became more like wrestling. Albums were longer and harder to produce because, frankly, two man democracies do not work. Inevitably, and while still in their commercial peak, Curtis Smith left the band in 1991.  

While Orzabal continued on with rights to the band’s name, Smith mostly dabbled and floundered. Tears for Fears released two interesting, though lesser, albums in the 1990s before they began to drift towards the “where are they now” bins. While briefly commercial stars, the band sustained support among journalists, diehards and, presumably, Freudian scholars. Much of the 1990s consisted of fan service — re-issues, rarities releases and the like. Eventually, however, these retreads required business discussions between the founding duo. And, one day, in 2000, those steely business conversations thawed. Orzabal and Smith had dinner together for the first time in many years and agreed to return to the “Big Chair.” Tears for Fears was ready for more therapy.

As one might expect, it still took years for the band to make their reunion album, “Everybody Loves a Happy Ending.” By the time it came out in 2004, the popular music landscape had changed such that a Tears for Fears album was not an international event. For critics, “Everybody Loves a Happy Ending” represented an opportunity for the band to cash in on the nostalgia tour circuit. But for the knowing, the album was a necessary continuation of the analytical work that had begun over two decades before. Psychologically speaking, Orzabal and Smith had unfinished business.

The resulting sessions proved to be neither cringeworthy like a journal nor fully satisfying like resolution. Though just in their early forties when “Everybody Loves a Happy Ending” was released, Orzabal and Smith had not collaborated since they were in their twenties. The long hiatus, however, showed little ill effect. In fact, the first five songs of the album are quite extraordinary. The titular opening track is ambitious and effective, racing through every Beatles’ trope and then adding a dollop of George Harrison solo magic for good measure. Though not an obvious radio hit, it does more in four minutes and twenty-one seconds than most albums accomplish over a dozen tracks.

With the next two tracks, “Closest Thing to Heaven” and “Call Me Mellow,” Tears for Fears prove that Coldplay, Oasis or Tame Impala have very little on them. At their best, Orzabal and Smith can go deeper, wider and bolder than those aforementioned bands. The haze of guitars can sound mammoth. The piano can sound timeless. The beats can effectively shift from pumped up drums to infectious handclaps. The harmonies can be piled up high or used as crosswinds. Frequently, TFF can make you wonder what would have happened if Paul McCartney had found a second, worthy songwriting partner and producer. Yes -- that’s how good Tears for Fears could be. 

Elsewhere on “Everybody”, the Beatles’ vernacular proves less potent. “Who Killed Tangerine” is straight Sergeant Pepper collage, complete with strings, side conversations and solar eclipse choruses. And “Secret World” discovers what happens when you marry McCartney’s Tin Pan Alley-isms with 70s AM radio, Bert Bacharach fare. Both songs have their moments and both sound worked and worked and reworked. On “Secret World,” we get one of many Orzabal lyrics that feels grand and universal while it peers within. It is quite a rare gift to be able to write something that is at once so anonymous and anthemic and, yet, so clearly personal:

And when we're crossed

We can say that we're lost

In the middle of nowhere they can like it or not

And if we're wrong and we end up alone

We'll light a candle for their innocent bones

Even the misses on “Everybody Loves a Happy Ending” are ambitious. “Quiet Ones,” “Killing With Kindness” and “Ladybird” all reach for the Chris Martin stratosphere and wind up with something much closer to Seal’s “other hits.” They are full of big ideas and bigger aspirations, but they discount the Pop in favor of something grandly immaterial. Like a lot of psychoanalysis, Tears for Fears occasionally finds themselves chasing feelings and dreams towards dead ends. But also like therapy, when they stick with it, they occasionally break through to deeper truths.

Following a string of tepid, vaguely romantic searchers, they close with “Last Days on Earth,” wherein they discover a new groove. When the bass bumps into the ice sculpture of the strings here, you really feel like you are listening to a new form: Adult New Wave. You can almost hear Orzabal and Smith getting out of their heads and giving into the carnal appeal of their music. They leave all the thinking, the fussiness and the ego behind. Goodbye, Dr. Freud. Hello, Dr. Jung. It’s a shockingly good closer. It’s the sort of song that makes you willing to wait another three, four, five or ten for what’s next. To note, it’s now been over sixteen years. Whatever they’ve been working on since 2004, it likely involves a lot of work. Big Chair work, no doubt.

by Matty Wishnow