Originally, I’d intended to go the distance and review the Styx discography, or at least every Styx album I could find on Spotify. So, basically, all of them. But the Styx oeuvre proved to be beyond my capacity as an almost-sentient being. Plus, I got busy with the work that pays the bills.
So consider this my final post on the band. I’ll delve a little bit into what happened after Kilroy Was Here, which continued an incredible run of successes. And I’ll try to uncover just what, if anything, I’ve learned on this deep-dive into the oeuvre of a band I’d long dismissed as one of the worst exponents of ’70s (and ’80s) FM radio rock.
Another victim of grunge?
It wasn’t until nearly seven years after the release of Kilroy Was Here (1983) that Styx got it together to record a new album. Released in 1990, Edge of the Century was the 12th record in the Styx discography.
However, Edge failed to meet the chart-topping successes of the previous five (!), and climbed only to #63, according to Wiki. A&M released two singles from the album: one of them, “Show Me the Way,” became a top three hit. (No, I didn’t remember it either. I went back to listen to it, and it’s an unexceptional power ballad.) The album saw Glen Burtnick replace Tommy Shaw, since the long-time Styx guitarist was off shredding with the Damn Yankees.
And then:
“Styx toured across the US in the spring and summer of 1991, but their success was short-lived, as they were dropped after A&M Records was purchased by PolyGram Records, ending an over-fifteen-year relationship. The popularity of Grunge [sic] was a major factor in PolyGram letting the band go.”—Wiki (no citation)
Styx—The Missing Years
Styx went back into hibernation and reemerged, with Shaw, in 1995. However, session man Todd Sucherman came on board to fill in for long-time drummer John Panozzo. Ponozzo, a founding member along with his brother Chuck, “was unable to participate due to liver problems caused by years of excessive drinking,” according to Wiki. He died the following year.
In 1999, album #13 appeared. But Brave New World brought band tensions to the fore, and Dennis DeYoung left (or was canned). DeYoung, it is interesting to note (at least to this weirdo), released a solo album in 1998, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And if you’re hoping that means a concept album based on the Victor Hugo novel of the same name, you’re in luck.
And here comes Gowan
Styx replaced DeYoung with another singer/keyboardist/songwriter, but a Canadian one: Lawrence Gowan. Gowan’s claim to fame was his 1985 album Strange Animal. It went to #5 in the Canadian charts.
The newly reconstituted line-up released two studio albums of original material (Cyclorama, 2003; The Mission, 2017), one of covers (Big Bang Theory, 2005), and several live albums. Chuck Ponozzo, who had been living with health problems arising from HIV/AIDS, came out in 2001. Six years later, he published a book The Grand Illusion: Love, Lies, and My Life with Styx .
Styx, and Dennis DeYoung (playing the music of Styx), continue to tour and release music. In 2021, at the time of this writing, both had released new music: Styx with the song “Crash of the Crown,” and DeYoung with “The Isle of Misanthrope.”
What I learned from my immersion into Styx World
So as I’ve written before, part of the motivation in writing this series was to listen to the Styx discography, especially the early and later albums. I had already lived through peak Styx—roughly 1977-1983—as these represent some of my more formative years. But the early stuff—the band’s roots, as it were—and the post-boom material were unknown to me.
Were they really as bad as I’d come to believe? I’d grown up reading Creem Magazine, listening to The Clash, and making fun of the dully stupid playlist of Winnipeg’s resident rock radio station, 92 CITI FM (which played Styx incessantly). I had no time for the prog-rock band’s patented pomposity.
Well, I guess my world has expanded. While I’m not about to pay to see them play a casino in Tulalip, I enjoyed some of what I listened to. This was partly due to nostalgia, to be sure—”Mr. Roboto,” as ridiculous as it is, is a call-back to a more innocent time, “Lorelie” takes me back to one of the first K-Tel Records records that I ever owned, and “Light Up” is still a kick-ass party anthem.
I was a little surprised to learn that the band has real working-class (Chicago) roots. Early on, they were as inclined to sing about working man blues as crystal balls and serpents rising. I also came to appreciate some of the band’s more out-there moments—the ones where no one reigns in DeYoung’s pomp-opera instincts, especially in the early days.
What I still don’t care for are the treacly ballads (“Babe”). And the band’s early boogie-rock excursions today sound like third-rate ZZ Top. After listening to the post-DeYoung albums of original material, I’d be hard-pressed to remember a song. And, like albums by any coke-fuelled rock band then (and now), the band’s albums contain their share of filler.
So was listening to the Styx discography a worthwhile project? Well, if it wasn’t for COVID… but I am kind of glad I turned over this particular rock (pardon the pun) on one of my musical prejudices. Generally, though, I’ve still got some work to do in that regard.
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