The first volume of Phonogram sometimes got so bogged down in its own argument it wasn't clear whether its magic was anything more than just a metaphor. There's nothing uncertain about things in The Singles Club. Anyone can bring their own magic out when the music starts and the moment is right.
The seven issues in this volume take place over a single night, each telling the story of a different person at the same nightclub. Some are new, some are back for more. David Kohl, Emily, and Kid with Knife come back for another round. What do you know, as soon as the petty nostalgia goes out the window they're sort of likeable. The DJ Seth Rich and his female buddy foil The Silent Girl make a sort of Greek chorus in the middle where they quip about the club rules and music and everyone there. It's one of the more subtle pieces here, the symmetry between them shifting ever slightly each panel it feels like there's as much action going on as any other part of the volume, even if it's basically just a running commentary.
The best stories are the ones it starts and ends with, though. We meet bubbly Penny and it seems like the night's going to go one direction as she looks all ready to seduce the beautiful, mopey boy Marc. Then he rejects her like nothing else, his own lost ghost of a girlfriend haunting him through the night. Even he finds a certain solace in living in the past for one night, though. None of the characters end the night in despair, really. Penny's shy friend Laura finds an inner strength. Marc's stuck-up buddy Lloyd might be close to some kind of long-needed self-realization. Penny comes full circle too, finding some fleeting happiness when she sets her sights on something simpler than being hung up on someone to whom she's invisible.
The yin and the yang of the playlist that frames the book completes itself by the end, too. One of the club rules for the night is they play only songs by female singers, and the playlist bangs more than ever. Every issue gets its own song, from the Pipettes to the Long Blondes to Robyn, some of which you might have had to have been into the scene at the time to remember but trust me, they hold up. The very last issue, though, uses one of the most unapologeticly carnal guitar anthems of the decade, TV on the Radio's Wolf Like Me, as the last of the clubbers find an end to their night. Part of learning the rules is knowing when to break them.
Jamie McKelvie's pencils and Matthew Wilson's colors make Kieron Gillen's clear dialogue feel that much more lush. The story gets sentimental at times but it never loses the sense that there's always a glorious moment around the corner if you just open yourself up to it. As much as I like the first volume, it's one I find hard to recommend, even to friends who love the era of music it dives into. It still feels like it spends too much time trying to rationalize something that's inevitably a different experience when you look back at it. I'd recommend this comic to anyone, though, even someone who never lived through this incredibly specific and short period of pop music. Gone are the apologies. Now it's about revelling in what you loved about something in the first place.