Venus Dressed in Plastic Garbage (1982)
Meanwhile due east about 1440.8 miles (give or take) in Boston, Mickey Bliss was strapping on his boots and laying down this dark little synth ditty. The title alone qualifies it as a masterpiece. Is this that Cold Wave that I sometimes see listed places where people are wont to endlessly divide music into genres and subgenres and microgenres until things get so muddled and confused and arguable that the labels themselves lose all sense of meaning? Maybe.