“Steve McQueen” by Prefab Sprout | Album Review

This album review pays tribute to one of the best pop albums of the 1980s as it commemorates its 40th anniversary.

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Genre: New Wave, Rock, Synth-Pop

Label: Kitchenware

Release Date: June 22, 1985

Vibe: 😃😃😃😃😃

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👉 Click the GIF to stream the album on your favorite platform

I don’t know what was in the water back in 1985, but it may have been the apex for gorgeous pop music made expressly for grown-ups. Records like Hounds of Love by Kate Bush, Please by the Pet Shop Boys, and A Walk Across the Rooftops by the Blue Nile packaged their melancholy as a shimmering mirage, doing away with the naivety and hubris of youth without descending into nihilistic detachment. Those records are for folks who have lived, loved, lost, and, through it all, kept some modicum of optimism intact. Back then, it seems to me you could be an adult writing pop music without resorting to performative trauma-dumping. You earned your audience’s trust and respect song by song, piece by piece, all with unparalleled soulfulness. It’s earnest without being cloying and pragmatic without sounding aloof.

No album of that year hit all those notes with the same understated brilliance as Prefab Sprout’s Steve McQueen, which celebrates its 40th anniversary this week. I could easily write an entire paragraph on how inexcusable it is that this record is continually overlooked in the conversation of prettiest 80s pop music achievements in favor of its more commercially dominant peers. But the truth is it’s not built to be the center of attention. In the streaming economy, where carefully timed dopamine hits and post-genre playlists reward the loudest voices over and over again, I can see how many younger music enthusiasts may not be aware that this album exists at all. It doesn’t shout. It’s not music that’s built for virality and a 10-second attention span. Instead, you get impeccably crafted mid-tempo meditations on love and identity, ones that have aged like fine wine, especially if you enjoy guitars that positively sparkle.

Prefab Sprout (I’ll get this out of the way now: it’s legitimately one of the worst band names of all time and probably hampered the group’s ability to reach a wider audience) was formed in 1978 by brothers Martin and Paddy McAloon, the latter of whom became their frontman and chief songwriter. Despite initially training to become a Catholic priest, he had a McCartney-esque knack for melody and a prose style steeped in a deep love of literature. In 1984, that distinctive combo caught the ear of English multihyphenate Thomas Dolby, who mentioned that he liked “Don’t Sing,” one of the highlights from their previous release, Swoon, on a BBC radio show. Following that public declaration, the band contacted Dolby about producing their next album. Paddy supposedly presented Dolby with over 50 songs he’d written but not yet recorded, some of them dating back over a decade. Dolby selected the ones he liked, demos were created, and the rest is history.

If you compare Swoon and Steve McQueen, you can really hear the difference Dolby’s touch made to Prefab’s sound. He brought a cinematic sheen that elevated what could’ve been another intermittently compelling lo-fi alternative release, sculpting every sonic element with remarkable precision. He’s since played down his role somewhat, telling GQ: “My main contribution was to manicure the song structures. They were a bit didactic. Once we had those right and the arrangements worked out, it was easy.” According to Dolby, it all would’ve been for not had the foundations not been so solid to begin with, though how much of that credit should go to him versus McAloon isn’t clear. “Production's easy, really, but the mistake a lot of people make is that they focus on flashy sounds, which doesn't work if the arrangements aren't there and the songs aren't there,” he explained.

The obsessive attention to detail is what makes this record sound so alive, even when it’s not pushing down as hard on the emotional gas pedal. The guitars and synths are layered with reverent care, hitting tones that sound both glassy and ghostly. The other instruments often move and breathe as one, making every track feel alive and present in the moment. Despite its reliance on then-cutting-edge technology, there’s little about this record that comes across as robotic or factory-assembled. On the contrary, because of McAloon’s intricate songwriting, the handcrafted nature of the production value lends a more sophisticated, timeless quality to every second of its running time. At the risk of sounding overly academic about all this, Steve McQueen is the aural equivalent to drinking in all the visual pleasures of a perfectly cut gem.

Take “Appetite,” one of my personal favorites. It opens with this elastic, addictive bassline that adds extra oomph to the hip-hop-inspired drum machine beat. On lead vocals, McAloon essentially prays for a newborn’s future in a world he isn’t positive can help nurture him the right way. There’s something so hauntingly beautiful about a line like, “Wishing she could call him ‘Heartache’/But it's not a boy's name.” I can’t necessarily rationalize it or defend the inherent cheesiness. However, it doesn’t have to make literal sense. It’s pretty. It’s okay to adore pretty things without explaining them away. Ditto for “When Love Breaks Down,” a track so pristine in its yearning that it breaks down my critically hardened defenses like a parent gently kicking aside a pile of Lego shrapnel on the way out of a child’s room. I don’t stand a chance.

If we’re talking beautiful, there’s also “Bonny,” which is one of the most arresting songs about regret ever committed to tape. It takes a simple, unassuming guitar riff and uses it as the fulcrum that balances fervent percussion and McAloon’s gentle, almost matter-of-fact delivery. The latter performance is maybe his peak, selling the anguish that comes with screwing up a relationship that meant the world to you at one point in your life. “I count the hours that I lie awake,” he sings at one point, “I count the minutes and the seconds too. All I stole and I took from you.” Elsewhere, “Moving the River” is a whiplash-inducing confessional, and “Horsin’ Around” offers some country-tinged levity.

Paddy McAloon doesn’t write lyrics so much as he pens existential dispatches disguised as love songs. His language moves seamlessly between the spiritual and cerebral, resulting in songs that nourish both your mind and soul. He references Dostoevsky or St. Augustine in one breath and captures a minute, ineffably human detail the next with a casual, almost throwaway phrase. McAloon once described himself as “a man haunted by a vision of pop as something that could carry the weight of ideas.” That’s the blueprint here. Riddles wrapped in delightfully silken hooks. He never sounds like he’s lecturing. Instead, it's the balance between scholarly density and unguarded vulnerability that makes this album feel like a rare conversation you’re not sure you were meant to overhear.

And yet, for all its sadness, there’s shockingly little bitterness on display throughout Steve McQueen. It aches for romantic resolution, but also emotional clarity and some cosmic absolution of past missteps. At every turn, McAloon and Wendy Smith, who deliver pitch-perfect backing vocals, sound like they’ve already seen enough stormy seas and want to chart a less choppy course for the next person who travels down the same path. If anything, these songs try to teach the listener how to live with disappointment without becoming jaded. In so many words, to avoid getting to the point where you’re throwing the baby out with the bath water reactively. These songs never rage or overstay their welcome. They speak their truths with elegance, grace, and honesty.

So why, then, isn’t Steve McQueen mentioned in the same breath as Rumours or Pet Sounds? Part of it is optics. In 1985, Prefab Sprout didn’t fit the typical pop music mold. They weren’t flashy. They didn’t chase trends. In the U.S., they didn’t initially get to keep the original album title, either, as it hit store shelves as Two Wheels Good due to legal pressure from the Steve McQueen estate. Glowing reviews from British critics didn’t translate on the other side of the Atlantic, deemed too subtle and sincere for the MTV crowd. Without a clear single to hitch its wagons to, it came and went without a ton of noise. And yet, over time, it became one of those word-of-mouth records music snobs have been increasingly vocal evangelists for. Not because it’s obscure, but because it feels personal, like a secret worth sharing.

Ask almost any modern songwriter who values emotional depth and melodic precision, and you’ll find Prefab Sprout lurking in their DNA. Steve McQueen is the hidden scaffolding behind so much of today’s soft-lit pop and indie introspection. You hear echoes of it in the intimacy of Weyes Blood, Phoebe Bridgers, Sampha, and Lorde. Even The 1975’s maximalist meta-pop owes a debt to McAloon’s idea of pop as a philosophical sandbox. That’s the Steve McQueen ethos. You don’t have to choose between beauty and brain. You can write about heartbreak and still ask the big questions. It’s not a record that tries to win you over on the first spin. It waits. And when you’re finally ready, it stays with you forever.

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What’s your favorite track from Steve McQueen? And if you’ve never given it a full listen, what are you waiting for?