For those few unfortunate enough to be uninitiated, here is the legendary debut full-length from the Television Personalities, Dan Treacy's inspired pastiche of 60's Carnaby Street pop sensibilities filtered through the grimy lens of post-punk Britain. Gloriously under-recorded and infused with a palpable sense of joie de vivre—but offset by moments of aching vulnerability—‘...And Don't the Kids Just Love It' is at once an expressive portrait of its time and an earnest homage to a passed age, and equally effective at both. I've always found this tension at the heart of the album—the stylistic posturing combined with an entirely modern, unselfconscious delivery—to be one of its most fascinating aspects, and listening to it the aural equivalent of peeking at someone else’s diary. This is an album chock-full of introspective pop songcraft at its finest. I don't know how many of you actually read these italicized ramblings, so in the merciful interest of those who do, let's wrap this up, shall we? The album's capper, "Look Back in Anger," is an all-time favorite of mine, and if you've managed to avoid the Television Personalities until now—and shame on you for that—do yourself a favor. Look out for this album's follow-up, 'Mummy Your Not Watching Me', to be posted soon. - Ariel
The first full album by Television Personalities, recorded after a four-year series of often brilliant D.I.Y. singles recorded under a variety of names, including the O-Level and the Teenage Filmstars, is probably the purest expression of Daniel Treacy's sweet-and-sour worldview. The songs, performed by Treacy, Ed Ball, and Mark Sheppard, predict both the C-86 aesthetic of simple songs played with a minimum of elaboration but a maximum of enthusiasm and earnestness and the later lo-fi aesthetic. The echoey, hissy production makes the songs sound as if the band were playing at the bottom of an empty swimming pool, recorded by a single microphone located two houses away, yet somehow that adds to the homemade charm of the record. Treacy's vocals are tremulous and shy, and his lyrics run from the playful "Jackanory Stories" to several rather dark songs that foreshadow the depressive cast of many of his later albums. "Diary of a Young Man," which consists of several spoken diary entries over a haunting, moody twang-guitar melody, is downright scary in its aura of helplessness and inertia. The mood is lightened a bit by some of the peppier songs, like the smashing "World of Pauline Lewis" and the "David Watts" rewrite "Geoffrey Ingram," and the re-recorded version of the earlier single "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives," complete with deliberately intrusive prerecorded bird sounds, is one of the most charming things Television Personalities ever did. This album must have sounded hopelessly amateurish and cheaply ramshackle at the time of its 1981 release, but in retrospect, it's clearly a remarkably influential album that holds up extremely well.
[Stewart Mason, allmusic.com]