This week In ’70s Throwback’ 04/52

1 . Pink Floyd . Another Brick In The Wall

Few tracks capture the cultural pulse of rebellion quite like Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2),” a middle finger aimed squarely at the British education system circa 1979.

Driven by a hypnotic groove and accented by the unlikely addition of a children’s choir—producer Bob Ezrin’s inspired twist—the song bridges rock and disco, a coupling that feels both defiant and oddly irresistible.

Its lyrics, penned by Roger Waters, are less a critique and more a primal scream against the factory-like homogeneity of schools, where individuality is crushed into “bricks” for society’s wall.

Layered beats churn underneath the iconic “We don’t need no education” chant, a line packed with irony given its grammatical defiance, matching the song’s internal dissent.

Released as a surprise single, it rocketed to global domination, taking detours through controversy, most notably in South Africa, where it became a protest anthem for black students opposing apartheid.

But the trilogy’s scope expands far beyond this chart-topping piece. “Part 1” introduces Pink’s fragile psyche, bruised by personal loss, while “Part 3” spirals into a nihilistic crescendo as Pink severs ties with the outside world.

Sonically, “Part 1” drifts through a sorrowful haze, all low whispers and melancholic undertones, setting the bar for isolation’s creeping onset.

“Part 3,” meanwhile, erupts neatly in controlled chaos, surging with anger as Pink declares his social excommunication.

The accompanying visuals from *The Wall* are as dystopian as the music—marching children meld into clones, swallowed by the terrifyingly surreal image of a meat grinder, a moment that sears its way into the viewer’s brain.

You’re left wondering: does Pink isolate himself from society, or does society shove him into symbolic exile? Either way, the wall stands, a menacing edifice to alienation and control.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, Pink Floyd’s drummer Nick Mason . ‘Happy Birthday,’ the day is perfect for . ‘Pink Floyd at their Bests’ post

2 . David Bowie . TVC15

David Bowie’s ‘TVC 15’ crashes into the late-’70s art-rock scene with all the strange charm and chaotic elegance one would expect from the ‘Station to Station’ era.

Crafted alongside Harry Maslin, this track stands out not just for its eccentric narrative—a surreal blend of Iggy Pop’s peculiar dream and a chilling moment pulled from ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth’—but also for its slyly absurd concept of a television set swallowing a girlfriend whole.

The melody balances on a tightrope of wit and quirk, driven by Roy Bittan’s playful piano work and the sharp guitar riffs of Carlos Alomar and Earl Slick, who duel their way through the track like they’re feuding on the world’s strangest stage.

Backing vocals from Warren Peace add an air of maniacal joy, layers that feel both polished and delightfully unhinged.

The rhythm section—courtesy of George Murray’s bass and Dennis Davis’s beats—takes a confident strut, veering between funk and something more mischievous, as if daring listeners to decide whether to dance or just tilt their heads in bemusement.

Commercially, ‘TVC 15’ didn’t scale towering chart heights, peaking modestly at number 33 in the UK and 64 in the US, although Sweden proved a slightly more attentive audience with a top 20 showing.

But chart stats seem irrelevant for a track like this, which is less concerned with mainstream appeal and more about Bowie’s penchant for blending the surreal with unexpected hooks.

Surprisingly—or maybe not—this oddball gem got its moment on the global stage during Live Aid in 1985, where Bowie, ever the showman, chose to open with the track for a worldwide audience of millions.

The song’s longevity lies as much in its sheer delightfulness as in its peculiarities, cementing it as a standout moment in Bowie’s kaleidoscopic discography.

‘TVC 15’ finds itself comfortably nestled into compilations and even earned a 2010 remix by Maslin, alongside a 2016 remaster for the ‘Who Can I Be Now?’ box set.

Critics have periodically returned to hail it with some warmth—’Mojo’ magazine, for one, called it Bowie’s 15th greatest song in 2015, while ‘Rolling Stone’ tucked it into its list of essential Bowie tracks.

It’s an odd little beast of a song, straddling the line between the playful and the bizarre, much like Bowie himself at the time—a shape-shifting master of reinvention whose work, even at its quirkiest, rarely failed to fascinate.

Lifted from : David Bowie releases his tenth album . ‘Station to Station’ featuring ‘Golden Years,’ ‘TVC 15’ and ‘Wild Is the Wind’ (1976)

3 . Elton John . Crocodile Rock

“Crocodile Rock” by Elton John feels like a bubbly postcard from the past, drenched in technicolor nostalgia and served with a wink.

The track leans heavily on early rock ‘n’ roll tropes, channeling the spirit of Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” while infusing it with Elton’s cheeky charm and flamboyant flair.

The Farfisa organ buzzes like a soda fountain jukebox on overdrive, accompanied by jangly guitar riffs and a rhythm section that’s clearly having as much fun as the listener.

Elton’s lyrics spin a yarn about youthful rebellion and first brushes with pop culture, a wistful ode to a time when the only thing that mattered was the thrill of the music and the freedom it symbolized.

Released at the cusp of the 1970s glam era, the song unapologetically wears its retro disposition on its sequined sleeve, a deliberate juxtaposition to its contemporary peers chasing modernity.

Its chart success, culminating in a three-week run at the top in the US, is an ironic testament to the evergreen allure of looking backwards in a forward-thinking industry.

Live performances, including the playful addition of a crocodile-head-wearing sound engineer, reinforce its status as a campy celebration of simpler times and sillier joys.

And while the Baha Men’s cover for Steve Irwin’s cinematic escapades might feel like an unauthorized smudge on the original, it’s proof of the song’s peculiar elasticity across eras and contexts.

As a slice of pop history, “Crocodile Rock” doesn’t try to be profound—it’s more interested in seeing how far it can stretch a smirk into a singalong chorus.

Lifted from : Elton John releases his sixth album . ‘Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player’ featuring ‘Crocodile Rock’ and ‘Daniel’ (1973)

4 . Steve Miller Band . The Joker

“The Joker” by the Steve Miller Band stands as a pivotal moment in their career, steering away from their earlier psychedelic experiments toward a smoother hybrid of blues and soft rock.

Released in 1973, the track functions less as a reinvention and more as a reset button for the band’s trajectory, offering a laid-back groove that’s as easygoing as Miller’s trademark drawl.

With lyrics like “some people call me the space cowboy” borrowing snippets from their past works and nods to The Clovers’ “Lovey Dovey,” the song feels self-referential without becoming self-indulgent.

Its bass-driven riff is deceptively simple, yet it exudes confidence, creating a vibe that’s as much about swagger as it is about musicianship.

Despite Miller’s initial fears of career decline under a lengthy Capitol Records contract, “The Joker” inexplicably struck a chord, climbing to the top of the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 and later resurfacing in the UK charts nearly two decades later thanks to a Levi’s ad.

This resurgence underscores the track’s knack for cultural ubiquity, even if one might argue its charm lies more in its mood than in its innovation.

Performing the song on “Midnight Special” in 1974 and recently alongside John Mayer in 2023, a collaboration that emphasized its timelessness, Miller anchors “The Joker” in a universality that’s difficult to pin down but impossible to deny.

The recently released 50th-anniversary box set, featuring unreleased material and Miller’s commentary, feels more like an archival excavation than a revitalization, yet it reminds fans why the song endured to begin with.

Lifted from : On TV today, The Steve Miller Band at ‘Midnight Special’ (1974)

5 . Chicago . 25 or 6 to 4

“25 or 6 to 4” by Chicago stands as a slice of late-night chaos, captured in the haze of an early morning songwriting session by Robert Lamm.

Its cryptic title, derived from Lamm’s ambiguity over whether it was 25 or 26 minutes until 4 a.m., is oddly fitting for a song that thrives on tension and urgency.

Peter Cetera’s vocals, recorded while his jaw was wired shut following a baseball brawl, add a clenched, raw edge, mirroring the song’s restless energy.

The track fuses a gritty cocktail of hard rock, jazz fusion, and hints of soul, held together by Terry Kath’s fuzz-drenched wah-wah solo, an electrifying highlight later lauded by *Guitar World*.

Charting at #4 in 1970, it transcends its era as both a radio favorite and a marching band staple, gripping listeners across generations.

Its appearances in pop culture—spanning *Rock Band 3*, *King of the Hill*, and *I, Tonya*—keep its legacy alive, though it feels odd to see a song this visceral reduced to the backdrop of fictional lives.

Chicago’s second album, home to this track, is equally remarkable, pairing raw creativity with commercial triumph, its cover debuting the band’s now-iconic logo.

Though it’s a song born of insomnia and uncertainty, “25 or 6 to 4” finds sure footing as a thrilling, jagged anthem of restless ambition. It’s as sharp as the hour it depicts, defying sleep and time alike.

Lifted from : Columbia publish ‘Chicago,’ their second and eponymous album featuring ‘Make Me Smile’ and ’25 or . to 4′ (1970)

6 . ABBA . Fernando

“Dancing Queen” by ABBA punches through as a glittering anthem of disco’s golden years, effortlessly merging Europop with the swagger of American grooves.

Written and produced by the Swedish trifecta Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaeus, and Stig Anderson, the track is slick with intricate keyboard riffs stitched to cascading vocal harmonies that tumble like champagne being poured.

The Phil Spector-inspired Wall of Sound production might feel excessive to some, but it’s a perfect match for disco floors that demanded nothing less than over-the-top glamour.

Peaking at #1 across more than a dozen countries, including ABBA’s sometimes elusive win in the U.S., its universal appeal was no accident—it’s engineered for mass adoration without a hint of subtlety.

Yet beneath its glitzy surface lies a composed sense of restraint, almost audacious in how it balances euphoria with melancholy, a hallmark of pop music done right.

ABBA, ever the masters of melodic cunning, underpin the song with bittersweet nostalgia, disguising longing behind the smile of liberation, a reminder that freedom often comes at a cost.

Even its pervasive cultural footprint—a requisite feature on countless compilations and playlists—hasn’t dulled its sheen.

If the track errs, it’s in its outright perfection, so laser-focused on calculated charm that it risks alienating those who prefer their music roughened by imperfection.

Still, if there’s a moment where the endless pulse of glossy disco needed a single, crystalline symbol, “Dancing Queen” ascends to the throne with unapologetic glee, leaving no room for doubt.

Lifted from : German TV tapes ABBA (1976)

7 . Little Feat . Dixie Chicken

Little Feat’s “Dixie Chicken” opens the floodgates to a sound dripping with southern grit and New Orleans swagger—a bold departure from the band’s earlier rock leanings.

Written by Lowell George and Fred Martin, this 1973 track captures a humid, bourbon-soaked narrative, spinning mythic tales of barroom romance and betrayal with sly humor.

The instrumentation sprawls like a back-porch jam session, featuring swelling piano riffs, greasy slide guitar, and rich vocal interplay buoyed by contributions from heavyweights like Bonnie Raitt and Bonnie Bramlett.

The rhythm section grooves with an unhurried confidence, fusing swampy funk with a laid-back shuffle that feels both loose and tightly controlled.

Where earlier Little Feat records carried hints of West Coast boogie, “Dixie Chicken” firmly stitches them into the fabric of southern R&B tradition, striking a balance between technical skill and raw emotion.

Lyrically, it’s an escapade—joyfully wistful, yet tinged with a knowing cynicism about love’s fleeting charms, delivered with the kind of storytelling that feels both authentic and exaggerated.

In many ways, the track isn’t just a song; it’s a declaration of intent—a recalibration of the band’s identity, down to its core elements.

By the time the lyrics circle back to their bittersweet refrain, you’re caught between wanting to laugh at the absurdity of the tale and leaning into its lingering melancholy.

It’s a song that doesn’t demand reverence but elicits it effortlessly, a cornerstone of Little Feat’s legacy without posture or pretense.

Lifted from : Warner Bros. publish Little Feat’s third album . ‘Dixie Chicken’ (1972)

8 . Cheap Trick . Dream Police

“Dream Police” by Cheap Trick is a swirling cocktail of paranoia and power pop theatrics that somehow makes being spied on sound like a party.

Released in the late days of the ’70s, it’s as if Big Brother himself grabbed a guitar, threw on some eyeliner, and started belting out his surveillance woes with a catchy hook to boot.

The band, led by Robin Zander’s polished vocals and Rick Nielsen’s eccentric energy, crafts a perfect tension between creeping disquiet and radio-friendly charm.

The strings swoop in dramatically, drawing comparisons to rock classics like The Who’s “Baba O’Riley,” yet the added organ and piano from Jai Winding give it a touch of theatrical flair.

Tom Petersson’s bass lines thrum steadily underneath, grounding all the excess, while Bun E. Carlos keeps the beat tight and filled with just enough punch.

Lyrically, it taps into late-20th-century fears of omnipresent control, but its sly wink keeps it from feeling preachy or overly dark.

The irony is that a song about being watched is itself hypnotically absorbing, a kind of Orwellian earworm that won’t let go, even when the turntable stops spinning.

Cheap Trick balances paranoia with showmanship, creating a track that’s undeniably fun while taking sly jabs at creeping societal surveillance.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, Robin Zander, . Happy Birthday, the day is perfect for . ‘Cheap Trick At Their Bests’ post

9 . T. Rex . Mad Donna

Recorded at the Château d’Hérouville in France, “Mad Donna” by T. Rex shows off a quirky mix of glam rock eccentricity and soulful experimentation.

Part of their 1973 album *Tanx*, the song opens with a child nonchalantly announcing “Mad Donna” in French, setting a tone that’s equal parts playful and oddball.

Marc Bolan’s unmistakable vocals enter the scene, flanked by jingly guitars and a relentless melody that refuses to let up, no matter how much you might want it to.

The squeaky backing vocals from “The Slider” resurface here, more pronounced and delightfully abrasive, exhibiting Bolan’s penchant for embracing the offbeat.

Producer Tony Visconti’s creative fingerprints are all over the track, with judicious use of mellotron and a fuller sound, courtesy of Flo & Eddie’s backing harmonies.

The band’s performance on *The Cilla Black Show* captures its scruffy charm, underscoring how *Tanx* marked a genre-blending pivot—dabbling in funk and gospel vibes amidst their glam backbone.

Unlike the spangled heights of “Electric Warrior,” *Mad Donna* opts to bop on its own strange wavelength, unapologetically odd yet undeniably compelling.

Lifted from : EMI publish T. Rex’ eighth album . ‘Tanx’ (1973)

10 . Van Halen . You Really Got Me

Van Halen’s rendition of “You Really Got Me” slaps with the kind of electric swagger only late ’70s hard rock could conjure.

The song, originally crafted by The Kinks in 1964, was already a powerhouse with its snarling riff and primal energy, but Van Halen dials it up with a ferocious verve that’s unfiltered and vaguely reckless.

Eddie Van Halen’s innovative guitar acrobatics inject the track with a new urgency, while David Lee Roth’s charismatic howl adds a layer of theatricality that’s both self-assured and absurdly entertaining.

Plucked as the debut single from their first album, this cover harnessed the band’s brash confidence, making it impossible for listeners to ignore their arrival.

The original by The Kinks epitomized ’60s British grit, with Dave Davies’ jagged power chords marking what many consider one of the first instances of modern rock guitar.

Van Halen doesn’t so much build upon that foundation as they throw an amp-flipping party on top of it, trading subtlety for muscle and precision for explosiveness.

While some purists might sniff at the frenetic embellishments, the chart performance and ongoing legacy of Van Halen’s version suggest audiences appreciate its unbridled bombast.

Years later, the track resurfaces in nostalgic playlists, live tributes, and posthumous celebrations of Eddie Van Halen’s craft, its raw charisma proving undimmable over time.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, Eddie Van Halen . Happy Birthday, the day is perfect for . ‘Van Halen At Their Bests’ post

11 . Styx . Crystal Ball

Released in 1976, Styx’s “Crystal Ball” doesn’t just showcase the band’s new guitarist Tommy Shaw; it reshapes their creative dynamic with a mix of introspection and raw energy.

The title track, penned by Shaw, feels like his audition tape for greatness—equal parts wistful folk and robust rock.

His acoustic and electric guitars twist and turn their way through the track, elevating it from a mere ballad to something atmospheric, aided by Dennis DeYoung’s ethereal keyboard undercurrents.

The lyrics tread a fine line between yearning for clarity and embracing uncertainty, a reflective theme that resonates across decades.

This number saw its own share of travels, appearing not only in the 1980 cult film “Roadie” but also tucked into a Japan-only compilation in 1981—an ironic twist for a song peering into the future to find its footing in niche audiences abroad.

Live renditions of it, like those from the 1978 Winterland performance, strip away the polish, leaving a raw yet potent delivery that underscores its emotional core.

John Panozzo’s sharp percussion punctuates the quieter moments without overwhelming them, an exercise in restraint that many drummers of the time seemed to avoid.

Chuck Panozzo’s bass lines, though less flashy, anchor the piece firmly, grounding Shaw’s vocal explorations and Young’s rhythm guitar in a cohesive structure.

Rarely does a band’s shift in lineup so seamlessly reinvigorate their sound, but “Crystal Ball” feels less like an experiment and more like a declaration that the band had found their new creative axis in Shaw.

While its polished studio version gets the spotlight, the track’s true essence seems to emerge in its live incarnations: expansive, imperfect, and undeniably human.

The quirks of its post-release trajectory—appearing in a film soundtrack, an exclusive Japan release, and mid-80s CD—speak not of a blockbuster classic but of a song that quietly but persistently demanded its audience wherever it could find them.

Lifted from : Styx perform at Winterland (1978)

12 . Kiss . Hotter Than Hell

The KISS album “Hotter than Hell,” released on October 22, 1974, is an emblem of 70s hard rock grit, where swagger meets distortion.

The title track, “Hotter Than Hell,” channels Free’s “All Right Now” with a riff buried under layers of Black Sabbath-inspired heaviness, as if trying to shake off an identity crisis in a smoky dive bar.

This is a song that flexes its muscles unapologetically, throwing guitar lines at the listener like a thick smog of sleaze and bravado, all while daring you to take it seriously.

Paul Stanley’s vocals stumble between seduction and raw insistence, carrying a kind of confident absurdity that only KISS can pull off without imploding into parody.

Though it never clawed its way to the top of the charts, the track endured as a staple in the band’s setlists, from its birth on grimy ’70s stages to a polished revival during their Revenge Tour in 1992.

“Hotter Than Hell” embodies the album’s ethos: messy, confident, and oblivious to its own chaos, proving yet again that KISS is not about finesse; it’s about the spectacle of imperfection turned into rock legend.

Lifted from : Kiss spend three nights in Detroit (1976)